


As It Was

by Marianne_Dashwood



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Just in regards to Jonah tho), Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Body Horror, But it's a ghost story so like what do you expect, Derealisation Elements, F/F, Graphic Descriptions of Being Burnt Alive, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Historically accurate except where it isn't, Horror, House Fires, Jonah Magnus Is A Bastard No Matter What AU He Is In, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Manipulative Relationship, Mentions of Period-Typical Sexism, Mutual Pining, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War II, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, ghost story, graphic descriptions of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: In 2019, Georgie Barker needs a new start. After a tragic event sours her creative output, she finds herself in possession of Magnus Hall, a country home from a relative she never knew. All she wants is a break from ghosts and ghouls; What she gets instead is a local legend, a haunting mystery and an ally in Melanie King, looking for a way to restart her YouTube series after the internal collapse of her show.In 1949, Martin Blackwood needs a new start. After his last job went sour, he finds himself newly employed by the mysterious owner of Magnus Hall, Jonathan Sims. All he wants is a job that will pay him enough to take care of his mother and not look too closely at his qualifications; what he gets instead is a generational power struggle, the flagging efforts of his new boss to gain the upper hand, and maybe a chance at love along the way.With supernatural events escalating for Melanie and Georgie, they find themselves needing to ask two simple questions; one, who or what is haunting Magnus Hall?Two: How do they stop it from killing again?
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, One-Sided Jonah Magnus/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 189
Kudos: 227





	1. in which there is an arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Hooooooly Shit. This has been literally months in the making, and I am so excited to finally be posting this!! Updates for this will be weekly (Every Wednesday, fingers crossed!) I do have a lot of backlog written so hopefully that will be enough, but, uh, apologies in advance (I haven't finished a long-fic in years!)
> 
> Firstly, I've got to say a huge HUGE thank you to Ostentenacity, Dathen, Rustkid and Osiris for comments and suggestions on various chapters, particularly Chapter 1 and the summery; all of your help is eternally appriciated and made this fic so so much better. Thank you so so much. 
> 
> Secondly, to the rest of the Magnus Writers discord; theres so many of yall that I can't name everyone, but you are an amazing group of people, and thank you so much for the inspiration and the space to just yell about everything tma/writing related.
> 
> Finally, the amazing, the wonderful FireFlashMoon/dewdropstar_; between starting this fic and finally posting it, you have been my rock, always there to bounce ideas off and to inspire me to do better. You're the absoloute best and I love you so much <3\. This is for you, sweetheart. 
> 
> And lastly (this will be the longest note in this fic by far but I promise I'm almost done!)  
> The spotify playlist for this fic can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/09YC3nsqW1bvubxc3Bz1t1?si=hEfEhaWOTp-YfLjDXo9msw  
> A trailer for this fic can be found here: https://youtu.be/uRROLvV_lYw

**2019**

The drive through the woods was desolate, and the house was even more so. Not that Georgie expected anything different, but it was still unnerving to watch the sky disappear and be replaced by the oranges and reds and browns of the trees that curved over them like a roof. It was both beautiful and unsettling, as if the forest could simply lower and swallow them up. The driver, Keckwick, had put on the radio as they pulled out of Crythin station, but the moment they had entered the woods, it had fizzled and died, and static had invaded the spaces of the car as the fog invaded the distant parts of the woods that Georgie could see out of the mucky window of the taxi. It was impossible to tell the time of day from the cradle of the treeline, the sky blocked out as it was. It could have already been evening for all Georgie could see of the woods beyond the car window. 

“Fog,” Keckwick had explained as he turned off the radio. It had been the first time he had spoken since the confirmation of her destination as she got in the car. “Comes down from the peaks, gets trapped in the valley, between the trees. You’ll want to be careful; it comes down without warning most days, but when it’s raining, you’ll barely be able to see a foot in front of your face.”

“It’s supposed to be good weather for the rest of the week,” Georgie had replied. She had checked on the train, watching the signal on her phone get steadily lower the further she came from London and the deeper into the countryside she came. 

“Perhaps,” Keckwick replied, unconvinced.

In this case, Georgie decided to leave it, and instead stuck a feather toy through the bars of the Admiral’s carry case, which he batted at with an air of disinterest, mewing at her sulkily. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the journey north, but had borne it with a lot more dignity than Georgie had thought possible. 

She glanced out the window to see if she could see any glimpse of the house to which they were destined. The trees above had thinned somewhat, and the sun, previously blocked by thick clouds, shone through. It was muted but it still made the whole forest look different; more homely, more inviting. 

Georgie couldn’t wait to get out there. After hours of being cooped up on a train, months of breathing in dust and probably asbestos in supposedly haunted houses, and years before that of the yellow smog and paved streets of London, she didn’t hesitate to get some actual air in her lungs. 

The sunlight, faint though it was, was somehow sharper here than in the city, making everything it touched cleaner, more defined. It cut lines through the fog in the trees, cloud shapes at eye level. A flicker of a cat’s tail, a hand on a tree, a figure disappearing into the woods. Georgie blinked, sure that the last seemed somehow more defined than the others, but it was at that moment that the sun refracted through the fog and shone right into her eyes, and when she blinked again, the muddy path had turned into light grey gravel, and the house was visible, rising out of the fog-ridden forest like a beacon. 

Magnus Hall was most certainly impressive at a glance. It was far more severe than its surroundings would have initially indicated, frowning down its driveway and lawn. It was as handsome as many other grand houses of its time, but carried with it a gauntness, an isolation that made Georgie shiver, despite the continued presence of Keckwick as he pulled her various bags out of the boot of his car. The round windows in the peaks of the house’s roof peered down at the newest interloper, and she couldn't help but feel examined by it, evaluated and seen in a way that an empty house should not be able to do. Constructed of a rich brown wood mixed with red and grey brick that Georgie was certain indicated that it had been here a lot longer than the wood would suggest, it at first appeared to have stood the test of time and isolation. The longer she looked, however, the more she could see the cracks in the foundation of her new home. 

The bricks were disparate, grey mixed with red messily, without care. Perhaps more pressingly, black ash streaked upwards from boarded up windows on the east side of the house, weeping with rain and dust of the years past. Parts of the roof were quite clearly ramshackle, patchwork created to keep the rain out and nothing more, with no thought to historical accuracy or the legacy of this once great home. The largest window, situated in the middle gable, hanging straight over the porch of the house, was oval, circles within the design, making it resemble some huge eye. If it wasn’t for the ash than ran from the window like tears, she could almost imagine sitting and watching the woods change from season to season, the Admiral curled at her side, bird-watching. 

A bird must be up there now, because as Georgie watched, there was a flicker, the smallest press of shadow against the sun, that looked almost like a person. It was gone in a blink, but she could have sworn it looked like a hand, scarred and pale, pressed against the glass. An old house must have some old legends, a few ghost stories trapped in its old, burnt, once-grand walls.

And it was hers.

**1949**

Tim was an easy talker, the kind of man whose conversation flowed like a river, sweeping away all protest in his path. Martin found that he barely had to speak, apart to express his utter surprise and childhood glee that had been inspired when he saw how Mr Stoker had come to collect him from the train station. The horse-drawn carriage was about ten years out of date, and despite working for the more fortunate for about that long, it had been years since Martin had come close to the magnificent animal, most of the upper echelons of society having transferred themselves to the latest and most expensive style of car. He explained this to Mr Stoker, who had quickly waved away Martin’s politeness and offered a hand to allow him to board. The horse and trap, he explained, was one of two that his lordship had and that Tim maintained. It was a little rough, the old and seldom used road making itself known, but Martin certainly did not mind the more antiquated method of travel.

As it was, it was a nice day, clear sunlight streaming through the trees and into Martin’s eyes. He didn’t need the sun’s excuse to put his hand to his eyes and try to breathe deeply. In for seven, out for eleven. He didn’t need Mr “Call me Tim!” Stoker trying to engage him in conversation. He had to be as presentable as possible, and, considering his entire self, well, he needed all the luck he could get. 

At least the scenery was nice. He didn’t mind being here, out in the woods away from smog-filled London and his mother and the smothering demands of both. Here, he could provide for her without gracing her with the pain of his presence. More pressingly, he could try and pretend that that didn’t hurt. 

“What’s he like?” Martin said, cutting Tim off from his attempts at putting Martin at ease. “Mr Sims?”

Tim barked out a laugh. “Jon? He’s a grumpy bastard, is what he is.”

At Martin’s shocked expression, he laughed again, full and clear and echoing through the woods. 

“He doesn’t stand much on ceremony, our Jon. To be honest, Sasha speaks to him more than I do, bringing him his food and all, but he’s wrapped up in his research most days. S’why he hired you, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded.

“Just don’t take anything he says personally, Martin,” Tim said. “He’s very set in his ways, like Miss Robinson was before him.”

Martin almost responded, but Tim spoke before he got a chance, and when Martin looked at him, his scarred face was serious for the first time since Martin had first met him. 

“You read what was in the papers about him during the war, I’d imagine.”

“I was…” Martin swallowed, choosing his words carefully. “I was working in a rather isolated household at the time. We didn’t get much news through to us there. But… The operation at Ny-Ålesund was of particular interest to my employer.”

Seriousness didn’t suit Tim, pulled his scarred face taut with the memory of anger and pain that even Martin could see at the mention of the place.

“Then you understand why you shouldn’t mention it to him. He’s been through enough with the press, he doesn’t need it invading his home. Especially after Rosie and Micheal.”

Martin opened his mouth to ask Tim exactly what he meant by that, when the treeline parted in front of him and Magnus Hall loomed large to greet him. 

Martin suddenly felt very small as he stared up at the house in front of him. He wasn’t a stranger to large houses – far from it, having spent most of his life working from within their walls, unseen to their occupants apart from the services he provided to them. But this one seemed to see him, fully and completely, and he could feel the veil of pretense that he had slung around his shoulders slip off the further that he stepped across that grey gravel. In the afternoon sun, the house stood tall and proud, an air of aloofness keeping it away and apart from the woods that pressed close to it. Even the wind had died down, here in this small clearing of civilization among the trees. Like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting, watching for Martin to take this step into a life built on a falsehood. A life that would, with any hope, be better than his last. 

His eyes trailed upwards, taking in the moss-covered brick and crawling ivy that hugged the house with a closeness that it seemed to reject the more it covered the bricks. Part of the house was wooden, much older than the rest, and there, in the highest window – round and staring, unblinking – a shadow flitted behind the glass. A hand pressed to the outside world, rich dark skin that even from here, Martin could see was speckled with peculiar circular scars. He chanced a glance back at Tim, whose own complexion was similarly afflicted. Tim was motioning him towards the back door, his hands full with the reins of the pony, and smiled at Martin reassuringly. By the time that Martin looked back, the hand at the window was gone. 

**2019**

“That’s all your things,” Keckwick said, jolting Georgie out of her thoughts. “I’ve put ‘em by the door, easier for you.”

Georgie nodded, smiling, though she privately wondered why he had refused to take them the few extra feet into the entrance hall. 

“Thank you,” Georgie said, putting the Admiral’s case on the ground. 

Keckwick paused for a moment, standing in the doorway of the taxi. “Take care out here. This old house don’t much like visitors.”

And before Georgie could protest, his car was already pulling around the old fountain, out of the old driveway. She sighed, and bent down to the Admiral’s level. 

“Looks like it’s just you and me now, buddy,” she said, unlatching the cage, the Admiral mrrping happily as he was freed. 

The old key in her hand had rested heavily in her pocket ever since she had received it in the post. She weighed it in her hand, then put it to the door.

Without even turning, the door swung open, revealing a surprisingly well-kept interior. With no vandalism evident nor rubbish littering the ground, it appeared as if it had never even stepped out of the early 20th century. Doors lead off to the left and right, and a magnificent staircase stretched out in front of her, making its way up around to the first floor. A balcony curled around the edge, and as with the windows, gave Georgie the uncomfortable sensation of unseen onlookers. She could almost imagine them, peering down at her, spindle figures clutching the banisters. Still, no one had lived in it for a significant period of time, and yet. Yet.

There was a thick layer of dust on every part of the entrance, coating and choking wherever Georgie looked, and the footsteps trailed away from the door and through a door off to the left, as clear as the sunlight making its way through the curtain covered windows. She wasn’t afraid, but there was still a moment where ice drew a line down her spine. She was not afraid, but she most certainly was not alone.

The Admiral sniffed at the door frame, and then turned his nose up contemptuously, wandering away to explore his new forest kingdom. Georgie didn’t particularly worry; the Admiral always found her eventually. 

“Right, just me then,” she said, sighing. There was an old umbrella, leaning against the inside of the porch, moth-eaten, spine sticking out like a spider’s legs. With a significant absence of anything else that she could fight off a potential intruder, Georgie took hold of the umbrella, and cautiously stepped into the jaws of the house. 

**1949**

“You must be Martin!” A smiling woman greeted Martin as he carried his bags after Tim, taking them away from him with clear disregard for his polite protests. “It’s so wonderful to meet you, I’m Sasha, the housekeeper.”

Martin took a moment to look around the kitchen. There appeared to be no other staff, and Sasha’s hands were worn with labour and covered in flour; the half-kneaded bread was proof, as was the washing hanging from lines that stretched across the kitchen, to the huge medieval-looking fireplace where orange and yellow flames were burning merrily. At first glance, it looked like complete chaos, but Martin could see Sasha’s eyes examining and cataloguing him with an intelligence that was initially hidden behind her disarming smile. Still, she was welcoming and open and warm as she gestured for him to sit at the table. It looked like a home, much more than any of the other places Martin had worked, and he forced back the lump in his throat when he realised it was the first time he had ever actually been in a home like this. 

“It’s, uh,” Martin cleared his throat, “it’s good to meet you. Both of you.”

“Do you want some tea, Martin?” Sasha asked, already fussing with the pot, “Especially after such a long journey. I hope it isn’t too strange for you, so far from London.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Martin said, thinking of how he had taken his full breath in years when he stepped out of Crythin’s station, “And, ah, not really. I’ve never had much cause to visit the countryside, but I’m glad to find myself here.”

“Well,” Tim said, “You might not have much time to visit it at all, not with the way Jon works.”

“Tim!” Sasha scolded, “Don’t say that! You’ll scare our guest. Go put Martin’s things in his rooms.”

“Oi, don’t I get any tea?” 

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Perhaps after you actually do your job, Timothy Stoker. Go on, shoo.”

Tim groaned, but waved away Martin’s offered hand as he began to stand, to insist that he could take his bags himself, before he disappeared out of the kitchen. 

Sasha placed a steaming mug in front of him. “Here, get some of that in your bones. We don’t want you collapsing of exhaustion before you meet his lordship. Are you hungry?”

“What?” Martin said, “I mean, pardon me, no, I’m fine, did you say his lordship?”

Sasha laughed, “Oh no, don’t get the wrong idea, our Jon isn’t a lord; but he has the temper of one.”

At Martin’s wince, she hurriedly continued, “Just wrapped up in his affairs most of the time, is all. He has the single-minded determination like no man I’ve ever met,” She shook her head, “All of that sharp mind, chasing after ghost stories and fairytales.”

She sat down opposite Martin, and took his hand in her own. Her hands were rough, and he could count every line in them, wisdom etched into her skin despite her young age. 

“To tell you the truth, Martin, we are so glad you’re here. It’s only Tim and I here, taking care of everything, and me with the house, and Tim with the estate, we don’t have enough pairs of eyes to take care of the real heart of this house. We hope that, with you to take some of the work off his shoulders, he’ll… Well, I don’t think relaxing is in his nature, but not work himself to an early grave.” She squeezed his hand. “I’d hate for him to live and die in his study.”

Sasha released his hand as Tim reentered the kitchen, allowing Martin to drink his tea to try and cover up the guilt churning in his stomach. This was supposed to be a simple job filing papers. Not a companion to a reclusive lord of a manor in the country. It sounded like a bad romance novel, not that Martin would ever be so lucky. 

“Has Sasha been getting you up to date on all the gossip? If it's about me, then it’s definitely true,” Tim said, winking and making Martin snort inelegantly into his tea. 

Sasha laughs, standing and resuming her work on the bread dough. “No, just giving Martin a run down on Jon before I introduce him properly.”

“Ah. Well, then don’t let Sasha scare you. He likes to pretend he knows what he’s talking about all of the time, but a man with that much mess cannot know what he’s doing.” He leans over and presses a quick kiss to the top of Sasha’s head, before waving at them both. “I’ve got to put Sasha Two away before she gets grumpy.”

“Not Sasha!” her namesake yelled after Tim as he laughed his way out of the room. “That horse is not Sasha!”

She shook her head, wiped her hands down on her apron. “That damned horse is the bane of my existence, I swear…” 

“I feel like there’s a story there.” Martin said, smiling himself, the tension carefully leaving him as he drains the last of his tea. 

“I wish there wasn’t,” Sasha sighed. “But that’s a story for later. Come on, he’ll be expecting you by now.”

Martin stood, and tried to look like his heart wasn’t trying to build up enough strength to leap out of his chest and run in the opposite direction. 

“Of course,” He said instead, “Lead the way.” 

**2019**

Georgie couldn't help it. When she collided with the figure that was lurking in her kitchen, she screamed, jumping back and swinging the old umbrella wildly. 

The intruder shrieked as well, and then cursed colourfully as they dropped something dark and heavy. “What the fuck, you scared the shit out of me!”

That in itself is enough to pull Georgie out of shock and into indignancy. “ _ I _ scared the shit out of  _ you _ ? What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“ _ Your _ house?” The figure pulled their hood back to reveal a woman, naggingly familiar, with short cropped black hair, more piercings than she could count, and the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen. “No one lives here. This place is abandoned, has been for years.”

“Yup, until about 10 minutes ago, that is.” Georgie folded her arms over her chest. “I just moved here.”

“You’re joking.”

Georgie looked at the woman, skeptic. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No.” The woman admitted, and then, in a voice that was more for herself than for Georgie, “ _ Fuck _ . I was counting on this location.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Georgie said. “What exactly are you counting on this house for?”

The woman bent down to pick up what she had dropped - a hand-held camera, but clearly professional, expensive. “You might not believe me if I tell you.”

“Try me.” Georgie replied.

“I’m…” The woman said, standing and dusting off her camera and quirked an eyebrow in her direction. “I’m looking for ghosts.”

“With only a camera?”

“Says the woman wielding a broken umbrella as a weapon,” She said, and smiled. “Most of my equipment is still in the pantry, I only just got here. I was doing a few preliminary shots for the show.”

Georgie put down the umbrella, and snapped her fingers. “That’s where I know you from! Ghost Hunt UK, right?”

Her eyes widened, and a smile broke out on her face. “Yeah! I’m Melanie, Melanie King.”

Melanie held out a hand to her, and, despite the increasingly odd circumstances, Georgie took it. Her grip was firm, solid. Very un-ghostlike.

“Georgie Barker. My… Great uncle twice removed, or something, died recently, and I’m apparently the only person in his will to get his old creepy house, so, here I am. And completely uninformed about any ghosts that might live here too, I might add.”

“Georgie Barker… Oh shit!” Melanie started laughing, loud and clear. “What The Ghost! I love that podcast!”

“Goddamnit,” Georgie said, but she was smiling as Melanie was. “I came here to get away from ghosts and ghouls. Now I’ve moved unwittingly into a haunted house.”

“Could be worse,” Melanie said. “At least it isn’t a serial killer’s murder house or something. In this house, the dead have been dead a long time.”

“What happened here?” Georgie asked.

“Typical jealous ex scenario.” Melanie replied, shrugging. “A servant set the house alight in 1949, killing their employer that owned the place. Then another one ended up killing the other and got sent to a prison. Apparently this place has a reputation for sending people mad and making them hurt their friends and family. A few other people have moved in over the years, but the last one was in 1996, and they didn’t last long. Always the smell of smoke and a series of mysterious deaths.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to beat their record, then.”

There was an awkward pause, the two of them standing in the kitchen of a house that neither of them were really supposed to be in. 

“I, er, guess, I better get out of your hair then.” Melanie said, shouldering her camera. “I haven’t got much of my stuff actually in the house, I was just doing a preliminary sweep before setting up. Then this place is all yours.”

“Why don’t you stay?” Georgie’s mouth said before her brain caught up with her. Damn her weakness for pretty girls. Well, it was more than that; not only the supposedly haunted nature of the house, but the fact that Georgie knew that Ghost Hunt UK used to have a full crew, and that none of them were here with their presenter. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. “There’s almost too much space for me to know what to do with, and well, you were here first.”

Melanie’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Georgie said. “Look, I… I know that Ghost Hunt UK hasn’t had an episode in a while, and I’m not gonna assume anything, but if I can help out one of my favorite shows, and have company in a haunted house, why wouldn’t I offer?”

“Georgie…” Melanie said, still staring. “Thank you. How can I-”

Georgie interrupted her with a smile. “Help me move my stuff in? I think you have more experience lugging equipment around.”

Melanie laughed, and put her camera down on the dusty wooden table. “I do. You should take a look at these guns sometime.” 

She lifted her arms up and Georgie turned quickly to lead the way before Melanie could see the blush on her cheeks. 

“How come people haven’t investigated this place before?” Georgie asked, grasping for conversation like a drowning man grasps for air. “Old spooky house, and I hadn't even heard of it before I got the keys.”

Melanie paused slightly before answering. “It has a bit of an… unfortunate reputation. At least amongst the other paranormal shows that I talked to. Several said they wouldn’t even research it.”

“We do tend to be a superstitious bunch,” Georgie replied. “But that’s extreme, even for paranormal investigators.”

“The house doesn't like to be known,” Melanie said. “That’s what Sarah Baldwin told me. That’s  _ all  _ she told me, in fact. I got the impression she had a bit of a bad experience.”

“A bad experience, ghost hunting?” Georgie asked. “What, is this place just a little too dusty? Rats in the walls?”

Melanie frowned at her as they stopped at the front door. “Can’t you feel it already?”

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know, it’s… I thought it was just the house, and being on my own, and then I thought it might have just been you, but it’s still there.”

When Georgie just continues to look at her quizzically, Melanie continues. “The feeling of being watched. I just feel like… someone is watching us. Eyes on the back of my neck, you know?”

Georgie glanced around at the dust-covered entrance hall, up the stairs and to the balcony. It was easy to imagine someone leaning over the edge, peering down at them both from on high. 

But the house was empty and silent. No one looked down on them, not one single creak of a floorboard or the rustle of footsteps and yet… and yet Georgie shivered, even in the sunlight dappling through the doorway. 

**1949**

Martin glanced down the staircase, panting heavily. Below them was four stories’ worth of narrow, steep stairs, leading up, past the dining room, the library (where Martin had been sure that they would stop), past the bedroom where Tim had lugged his bags into, higher and higher until Martin was sure that Sasha had lead him into a twisting spiral of deceit. 

“Here we are!” Sasha said, pausing at the top of the stairs to wait for Martin. “I know, it takes a bit of getting used to, but I promise it’s easier to climb these stairs than it looks. Though, I do have the highest bedroom. You and Tim are on the floor below me.”

“Oh thank god.” Martin said, only half joking. “How does Mr Sims do this?”

“Jon,” Sasha corrected him gently. “And that’s easy. He just doesn’t leave his study. Not unless we force him, anyway.”

“Just… Just how much of a challenge is this archiving job going to be?” Martin asked. “If he barely even leaves the room?”

“Oh Martin,” Sasha chuckled, lifting her hand and rapping on the door. “You have no idea.”

As the door opened, a low, rich voice echoed through the thin attic room, out into the staircase that they stood upon. It did not falter, shaping its way around the words like it belonged there, warm and firm, a strong arm around the experiences contained within. The words washed over Martin, and their content didn’t matter, not when that voice was speaking them. 

Then Sasha stepped forward, the voice stopped and spoke without a storyteller’s inflection, with irritation istead. 

“Yes? What is it? I’m recording, Sasha.” 

“Your new assistant is here.” Sasha replied, seemingly indifferent to the annoyance that already made Martin flinch. 

“Right. Send him in, then.”

Martin stepped forward into the doorway, and the hiss of tape stopped suddenly as he did so. 

The first thing he noticed about the room was the window, the very same one that had seemed to examine his arrival, though, it was clear that it was not the structural design of the window that had been watching him. Silhouetted by the light pouring through the window, the shape of the man in the room was indistinct, fuzzy around the edges like a flickering flame. Then the man stepped forward, and his shape solidified into something that could barely be described by a wordsmith of Martin’s ability. Lanky in a way that was almost unhealthy, dark brown skin and hair, though his hair was flecked with silver and his skin was spotted with familiar circular scars. He was, in a word, beautiful. He was beautiful, and Martin could hardly bear his inscrutable gaze.

He pursed his lips as he looked Martin up and down, taking in Martin’s hand-me-down suit, his oft-bitten nails and the hair that couldn’t look professional after several hours on public transport. Martin fidgeted under the weight of his gaze, and readied himself for an interrogation. 

Instead, Jon sighed, and sat back down at the desk, preparing his tape recorder (because that is what it must be, it most certainly wasn’t a gramophone or one of it’s variations, Martin had only read about them and how they were almost solely found within studios or radio stations). 

“As long as you can be quiet while I’m recording, you’ll do,” He said, “The blue boxes need to be organised, indexed and followed up on, start with that, please.”

The sound of tape hissing started again. Martin had no idea how expensive magnetic tape was, but he really didn’t want to pay it out of his wages, not when the majority of it was already going back to London. Either way, as Jon started to speak, resuming whatever it was he was reading aloud to the tape, Martin knelt on the floor, surrounded by boxes and boxes of files, interspersed with candles already burning down to the wick. God, with just one wrong step, this whole place could become an inferno, or at least lose Martin his newly gained job. All of the boxes were various shades of blue. A hand – Sasha’s – squeezed his shoulder, and he opened his mouth to thank her automatically before she put a finger to her lips, pointed at Jon, and closed the door as quietly as she could. 

Jon’s voice was low and surprisingly gentle, rising and falling with the tide of the story that he was telling, something involving dark Scottish alleyways and strange shadowy fingers. Not for the first time since entering Magnus Hall, Martin wondered what exactly he had signed up for. Still, as he pulled off his jacket and lifted the lid off the first box, if he got to listen to Jon’s voice for a living, maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad. It certainly would be better than his last job. 

He glanced towards Jon again, his form once again enveloped by the window’s gaze, already lost in his work. He felt his heart speed up, though he was no longer sure that it was from his anxiety alone. Instead, his cheeks grew hot, and he ducked his head in case Jon saw. Though, he wasn’t sure why he cared, all of a sudden. Especially considering he had only just met the man. Still, as he looked to Jon again despite himself, the files already forgotten in his hand, he couldn’t help but feel like he already knew Jon as he might know an old friend. Working for a recluse wasn't unusual for Martin after all.

Maybe, this would finally be the fresh start he needed. Maybe, he would finally have a chance. 

Martin bent his head, and, avoiding the candles with care, got to work.

**2019**

“Do you have any food with you?” Georgie asked, shaking off the shivers.

Melanie shook her head. “I walked here with my stuff from the station. I was packing light, especially with the camera and equipment.”

“Alright,” Georgie said, pulling on her jacket. “I’m gonna walk into town then. I’m desperate for some fresh air, and if you’re staying, we’re going to need a lot more food.”

“Do you want me to come with?” Melanie asked, but Georgie was already shaking her head. 

“Go ahead and start unpacking your stuff. Find a room, dust a bit, whatever needs doing to make this house somewhat livable before dinner, and I’ll bring back whatever else we need to do a proper clean while I’m out.”

“Sure,” Melanie said, then paused. “Are you sure you want to leave me, the person you’ve just met, in your house alone?”

Georgie threw a smile over her shoulder. “With all the ghosts you’ve told me about, are you sure you’re okay being in this house alone?”

“Hey!” Melanie said, smiling through her indignation, a shit eating grin spreading across her face. “I ain’t afraid of no ghost.”

“You are the worst ghost hunter ever.” Georgie said, completely deadpan. “If you’re going to make  _ Ghostbusters  _ references, then I don’t know if you can stay.”

"I better be careful then."

"You better,” Georgie teased, grinning as she watched Melanie disappear behind the thick wooden door. 

She took a deep breath of the clear forest air, her feet crunching in the gravel driveway. Maybe this would be the perfect fresh start after all. 

Putting the house behind her, Georgie headed out.


	2. in which there is an incident in the library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Martin learns not to take drinks near old books, Melanie gets back into the swing of things, Jon gets an unexpected surprise, and the prodigical son comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for all the kind comments on last weeks chapter - every single comment and kudos gives me more motivation to finish this!! Special thanks to the lovely folks at the Magnus Writers discord who looked over this chapter, and of course, endless love to Dew (@FireFlashMoon) who is always encouraging and wonderful. 
> 
> Bonus points to any readers who are able to pinpoint two scenes from two different horror properties that directly inspired a couple of lines here and there within this chapter!

**_1949_ **

Martin wasn’t sure quite what he had expected a few weeks after arriving at Magnus Hall, but it wasn’t a party. Jon wasn’t the type of man to throw parties in the first place, but it was apparently ‘necessary’, and if Jon had to go, then Martin would be there too. He had to have had functions like this before, business meetings masquerading as social events, but this seemed more like the former than usual. Which, frankly, wasn’t much of a surprise for Jon.

Jon was, to put it mildly, possibly the unforthcoming and critical person Martin had ever worked with. He refused to elaborate further on his research, insisting that all the information was readily available and contained in the incomprehensible files. When he was not fully absorbed in his own work, he was highly critical of Martin, often deeming his capabilities insufficient. Then there had been the Files Incident. Then the Tea Incident. And then Martin stopped naming them, because they began to pile up, the times that he spilled tea or moved a file to the wrong place or accidently interrupted a recording. He had lost track of the times that Jon had lectured him for failing to do his due diligence, or for spending too much of his time talking with Sasha or Tim or whoever Jon had asked him to phone to follow up a statement with. It wasn’t his fault that Ms Rentoul had kept talking about puzzles for over three hours. She had lost a son in the war, and well, Martin wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t exactly competent either, as the lecture the following day had pointed out. 

Martin hadn’t been fired, though. Honestly, he didn’t know if he wanted to be or not. There were pluses to the work, of course. Tim and Sasha had been accommodating and kind, and Jon was not outright cruel in his treatment, only thoughtless in his dismissals. He looked at Martin like he was disappointed, in the moments that Martin caught him looking, and while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, if Jon was disappointed, well, Martin was used to being a disappointment. It was better than disinterest. Better than the _wrong_ kind of interest. If Martin had a choice, he would take Jon’s ire than the isolation he was used to. He wished, though, that he could figure out exactly what made Jon’s young face look so ragged, so tired. Maybe if he worked hard enough, tried harder, did whatever it was that Jon was still waiting for him to do, maybe, maybe Jon would be less critical, on both himself and Martin. Martin did not miss the way he worked well into the night, how he rose earlier and frantically scribbled and scratched out notes with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. Maybe, if he did everything right, Jon would be able to rest. Maybe, he might even smile.

Still, this was no time for such thoughts. He stood, surrounded by chatter and frills and the type of accents that made his hackles rise involuntarily. As he stood, he longed for Jon’s quiet breathing, the rustle of papers that had become the gentle soundtrack to his life by this point. He would even take Jon’s lectures over the polite, upper-class conversation he was forced to endure. Instead, he moved from foot to foot uneasily, pulling on the cuffs of the suit that Tim had leant him and Sasha had altered. As a member of the household he was required to attend, but unlike Sasha and Tim, who moved easily and silently amongst the amassed strangers, he wasn’t a servant, not in the traditional sense. He was Jon’s assistant, and that meant answering questions from the guests. When they bothered to pay him any attention, mind. 

At the moment, most of them stood laughing and talking, paying more attention to the latest gossip that spilled forth from whatever poor creature they had caught and who had been foolish enough to let them smell his weakness. At the moment, the largest pack of these creatures had cornered young Keckwick, who Tim had explained they often brought on for a night to aid with the influx of guests. 

The poor boy was spluttering, and Martin would have gone to rescue him had it not been for Sasha’s hand on his elbow. 

“They’ll let him go in a moment. Watch.”

Sure enough, they soon turned their attention away, and Tim quickly swept the boy away, offering a tray of drinks to the group, who dived on them as fast as they had dived on poor Keckwick.

“What did they even want from him?”

Sasha sighed. “Information on Jon, what else?”

At Martin’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “He’s unmarried, was left a large home and fortune, and barely interacts with anyone outside of the house because of what the papers did four years ago. When you don’t have to worry about what you’re going to eat day to day, then other people’s mysteries and potential gossip are always more interesting than anything. That’s people with money for you.”

Martin can only nod in agreement. 

Sasha startled suddenly, and elbowed Martin. “Look sharp. Magnus is here.”

Martin looked up, but it was not the sight of the man he knew must be Magnus that made his blood run cold. Oh, the others had told him about Magnus, the house’s original intended, until a bet with Miss Robinson had turned him out of his ancestral home. He would pry the most, the others had been sure. He already strode into the room like he had always lived here, and Sasha had told Martin of the tendency he had to be able to peel back your intentions, to twist and turn conversations to his advantage without you even realising you had given anything away. How he prowls around Jon like a cat that got the cream, and is now only savouring it before he devours it whole. No, it was not the sharp tongue and even sharper mind of Jonah Magnus that froze Martin in place, causing him to grip his glass so tightly that his knuckles turned white. 

No, it was the man beside him, grizzled, hair faded as if the sea salt and fog had ingrained themselves there. His eyes, as always, were ice blue and scanned the room with a piercing glare that Martin had always, in his heart of hearts, feared. That look which pierced you and made you feel like you were nothing all at once. 

Peter Lukas was here. A dizzying thought, and one that threatened to have this whole lie come crashing down around him. Why was Peter Lukas _here?_

Matin was vaguely aware that Sasha was saying his name, concerned at his abrupt change in demeanor. It didn’t matter; he had to get out of there now, before Peter could see him. 

“Excuse me,” He said, pushing past Sasha and various guests in his haste to leave. Through the side door, because the pair have entered through the door of the music room, and if he tried to climb up the stairs then they would surely see him, as uncrowded as it is. His only option was to make his way across the landing, inelegant in his haste and the crowd surrounding him, towards the library. If these parties tend to go the way that he was used to, then he knew that even his bedroom will not be safe from guests who have little to lose and too much to drink. 

In comparison to the lights and noises of the music room, the library was cool and dark, all wood and leather and thick paper. The thick oak door creaked as he opened it and it muffled even the loudest of the laughter from outside, and it was only when he rested himself against the shelves, forehead pressed against the cool glass of one of the bookcases that he realised his heart was beating frantically.

He took a moment, allowing his breath to fill his lungs that a moment ago felt like they had been full of salt water, allowing his mind to clear from the fog. In for seven, out for eleven. 

He is here. Lukas - Peter - is out there, and with any luck he will stay out there, and when the party is over Martin will sneak out of the library and Peter will never know. 

“Martin?” A voice echoed out of the darkness of the library and the glass that Martin was still, miraculously, holding dropped and shattered, shards and champagne splintering over his borrowed shoes.

“Dammit-” He hissed, and bent down to scrape it into his palms, because this carpet has got to be worth more than his entire yearly salary and if it got on any of the books, Jon was going to kill him -

Jon. Recognition slammed into place as Martin straightened, fragments cupped in his palms. Jon stood several paces away, watching Martin with an eye that is somewhere between critical and curious. Martin has seen Jon haughty, absorbed in his work. Has seen him indigent and clever and perhaps less disdainful than Martin had initially thought, but he has never seen him as he does now. Fingers curled around the edge of a bookshelf, the other hand twisting his cuff with an impatience that borders more on nervousness the longer that Martin watched. Most of his body remained behind the shelf, the word skittish springing to Martin’s mind. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin said quickly, “I didn’t think anyone would be in here, I just wanted a moment of peace and quiet.”

Jon blinked at him, but when Martin was no more forthcoming, he spoke. “I suppose that’s understandable. These kinds of events are rather detestable in such large doses.”

“I can leave if you want me too.” Martin said. 

“Ah, no, I-” Jon paused. “Don’t leave on my account, Martin. Take your moment. Besides, the glass.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue, but decided against it. Instead, he leant down, and tried to gather up more of the shards of the broken drink.

“If they are so detestable, why even bother holding them?” He asked as he knelt, watching as Jon’s knees shift from side to side even as he does not step closer. 

“It is… unfortunately necessary, for the nature of my work.”

“Jon,” Martin said, frowning, “Your work is pouring over other people’s ghost stories, trying to find out if they are true. I’ve read the statements, followed up on them, even.”

Jon looked at him, and there, the retreat of the skittish animal and the rearing forth of the disappointed teacher that Martin was sure that Jon was in another life. “To follow up on these statements, we need contacts. Even the most vapid of socialites know enough interesting people for us to debunk ten, twenty statements. And, despite most of the fantastical elements, they cannot pay for the upkeep of this house. I require funding for that. And all the people that have the kind of money to just throw around on chasing ghost stories are in that room.”

He nodded towards the door, where the laughter echoed and faded into dust before it passed to them. 

“Then,” Martin said, wetting his lips before he asked one of the stupidest questions of his life, “Then why are you in here, talking to me, and not out there, persuading rich idiots out of their ill-earned money?”

Jon tightened his grip on the bookcase, and mumbled, “Just because I have to do it, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. Or am particularly good at it.”

There’s a certain way he holds himself then, hanging back behind the stacks that tower over his thin frame, that raises a surge of protectiveness in Martin, even towards this man who has done nothing but belittle him since he arrived. Jon’s an arsehole, but, if he endured even half of what Martin knows men like Peter Lukas are capable of…

There was a creak, the now familiar sound of the rusty hinges of the library door, and there was a flash of tailcoats as Martin whirled around to face the new intruder. 

“Is everything alright in here?” A voice, smooth and oil slick, preceded the entrance of the man himself. “I heard a crash.”

“Ah, no,” Martin scrambled for an explanation, “I was merely clumsy with my glass, that’s all”

“Ah, you must be Martin,” Jonah Magnus smiled as he extended a hand, as if it was his house, as if Martin was the guest in Magnus’ home, “For someone here for so little a time, I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“Oh?” Martin said, resisting the urge to turn and look for Jon, “From who? Uh, whom?”

Magnus smiled, and for a second it was easy to imagine that same smile on some kind of predator, one about to strike. Up close, he was a lot younger than his demeanor and manner of speaking would have suggested, mid-twenties if Martin could guess. His tone as he spoke was languid, so casually possessive that it made chills run down the back of Martin’s spine, “Why, our dear Jonathan, of course. He and I keep a rather detailed correspondence. I am so interested in the work that he does here. Well, I suppose that you do here, as well.”

“Yes,” Martin said, and then, because he can, “Are you enjoying the party, Mr Magnus?”

Magnus’ eyes are as black as beetle shells, and were similarly impenetrable. They made his youthful face look plastic, like a waxwork in the making. “Jonah, please. We must do away with such formalities, if we are to work as closely together as I hope we will. I am enjoying myself as much as I can, without the presence of one’s host. Do you know where our Jon has buried himself?”

The question, phrased so casually, teetered like a knife-edge. 

He thought of the disappointment in Jon’s eyes whenever he saw him, late nights of work only exacerbating his critical eye for Martin’s work. How he would fall asleep at his desk. Martin thought about pale brown knuckles clutching onto dark oak bookcases, about flittering of shadows at the window, about Jon’s restless hands and Magnus’ strong, steady ones. How Magnus shaped the words ‘Our Jon’ and how he curled his voice around the vowels like a rope. Money and power and how the absence of both makes you a target, a fish in a shark pool. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” Martin said, meeting Magnus’ gaze, “But I’ll let you know that you’re looking for him, when I do.”

“How kind of you,” Magnus replied, with a smile more teeth than mirth, “Well, I must be getting back to the party. It won’t do to be skulking away behind locked doors. People might get the wrong impression, don’t you agree?”

“Of course,” Martin said, keeping his voice level, or as level as it can be in such circumstances, “I must be getting on myself. I have a few papers that I was fetching for one of the guests, regarding our latest statement.”

“Oh please, don’t let me keep you,” Magnus said, “It has been a pleasure. I do hope to talk again soon, Mr Blackwood.”

Martin nodded, and with one final, pointed look, Jonah Magnus left in rather the same manner that he entered; with arrogance and pride.

Martin let out a breath that shook rather more than he meant it too, and turned to the empty space behind him where Jon had vacated. 

“He’s gone,” he said, “Jon? He’s gone.”

Jon stepped into the light of the library, and now Martin can see how the close encounter has washed the colour from his face. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jon said, roughly. There is a strange mix of curiosity and something that might be called gratitude in his voice. Like he isn’t quite sure how to process exactly what Martin just did for him.

“I know,” Martin said. _What else is there to say?,_ he thought, and the silence between them stretched.

“What did he mean?” Martin asked, after a moment, “What did he mean when he said a detailed correspondence? Because I take your mail, Jon, and I know for a fact that your letters to him are barely a page, at most. And, how did he know about me? Did you tell him?”

“No,” Jon said, heavily. “But that is Jonah for you.This is how he works. He picks and picks and picks and even if all you give him are threads, somehow he will make an entire tapestry out of it. I mentioned a new assistant in passing, once, to try and stop him suggesting one, and now he knows exactly who you are.”

Martin shivered, with no small amount of horror creeping through his spine. 

“That sounds horrible.” He said. 

Jon turned his head and looked to Martin, suddenly, sharply, “‘Why do you think I keep to myself so much?”

“I…” Martin started, but quickly fell silent. His previous thoughts seemed embaressing in their amutur deductions compared to the real answer. 

“Continue, Martin.” Jon pierced him with a gaze that Martin had become all too familiar with, one that left Martin unable _not_ to answer. “I do want to know your thoughts.”

“Men that I have worked fo- with,” Martin began, already cringing internally at how he had to correct himself, “Men of… a certain station, those that I have met, they tend to find that they have enough material comforts in their home to never want for anything outside of it. They take the world and they hoard it away.”

“So you think I am like every other man you’ve met.”

“I don’t think I have ever met anyone quite like you, Jon.” Martin said, feeling the heat as it rose when he realised what he had said.

To his surprise, he saw the same faint colour in Jon's cheeks, though the man retained a much straighter face than Martin. 

“Then, ah, what else did you think of me?” Jon asked once more, and like a fool, Martin could not help but answer.

“Some men of your age,” Martin said, hesitant, “Those who…. Those who fought, and survived, they are… scarred. Physically and mentally. Anything I found about you prior to coming here covered… your scars, in much depth. And,” Martin stopped, thinking back to Tim’s words on the carriage here. “And, what happened in Ny-Ålesund. Though I am sure that what was reported is nothing close to the truth.”

Jon, instead of being offended, simply cocked his head. “Ah, I was wondering if you had researched me before you came. And yet you came anyway, despite Jonah’s attempts to slander my name and my mind in the eyes of the public.”

“That was Jonah?”

Jon nodded, “Jonah is clever. And he is used to getting exactly what he wants; like secrets. Knowing them, uncovering them,” He picked up a book,and flicked through it. “Exposing them for all to see.”

Martin swallowed. His heart was racing in his chest, and the familiar anxious ridden fog that had flushed through him at the sight of Peter Lukas rose through him again like the tide. 

As he watched, Jon thumbed through the book with long, pockmarked fingers. He hadn’t yet gathered the courage to ask Jon, nor Tim more about them, and he did not think it would be polite to do so. 

“Why?” Martin asked. “Why would he do that?”

“To show me he could.” Jon said. “To show me that no matter what, he would always play a part in my story. That I cannot rid myself of his influence, even if I tried. Even my home bears his name, and he is the price I must pay for that.”

There was a pregnant pause. Martin does not want to return to the party of vultures, and it is clear that Jon does not want to either. Even if the alternative is to stand there in awkward silence, waiting for the other to move. 

“Tell me Martin,” Jon said, suddenly. “Have you ever heard of fore-edge painting?”

Caught out by the sudden change of topic, Martin blinked in surprise, “I- Wait, what?”

“Fore-edge painting, Martin,” Jon held out the book he was holding, and Martin took a step forward to take it from him. “There are images hidden in the book's fore-edge. Look, see?”

Martin bent open the book, _Beaches of the Scottish Coast_ , feeling the gloss at the edges of the pages, and pulled it away to examine it. Out of yellowed paper and seemingly nothing, a picture appeared; a beach, covered in fog, the sunlight through the clouds so faint it is hard to tell whether it is a painting of sunrise or sunset.

“Oh…” Martin said, his fingers tracing the delicate painting. “It’s beautiful.”

Jon hummed in agreement. “Carefully dissimulated… until you bend the pages.”

“Do you have many like this?” Martin asked. 

“Several, in fact. Gertrude collected them. Even her hobbies were full of secrets.” 

Martin didn’t quite know what to say to that. Jon held out his hand for the book.

“Not every secret is as nice as these,” Jon said. “This place is full of them. Ones that even I don’t know about. And Jonah just wants to possess all of them. Not know. Possess.”

There was a momentary press of warmth, and Martin looked down in surprise. The tiniest brush of skin, dark pockmarks against freckled fingers. Jon seemed as shocked as Martin was by this, but instead of jerking back, or pulling away, he stood, as still as a statue, if it wasn’t for the warm pulse beneath his fingers. 

“Take care of your secrets around Jonah, Martin,” Jon said, as he pulled the book back towards him. Martin’s hand felt cold from the absence of that small part of warmth. 

“I will,” Martin said, and then, “Will you, will you join the party now?”

“I suppose I must,” Jon shelved the book inside a glass case, “Would you accompany me?”

Martin thought about Peter Lukas, and Jonah Magnus, and the press of fog from long ago.

About the way that Jon frowned when he found something particularly troubling in a statement. How he seemed so indomitable until the moment Magnus stepped into his home. How he had looked at Martin after Magnus had left, like he was trying to work out his motives for doing so.

Martin had been raised to follow orders; _Come here. Do that. Give that to me._

This is what he actually responds to, what he would really put himself on the line for; lines of exhaustion in Jon’s thin frame, his fingers curled around the woodwork like a bookcase could protect him, the look in his eyes like he never expected anyone to lie for him. 

“Of course, Jon,” Martin said, and that was that. 

* * *

_**2019** _

After Georgie left, Melanie headed up to the library, camera and tripod in hand. It wasn’t that she didn’t intend to do as Georgie had asked, but if she could reduce the amount of time on this shoot, she would. She didn’t need, or want, a stranger's pity. Especially not one of the last people in her industry that still seemed to think of her as a professional. Georgie hadn’t mentioned a single word of the Incident, but there was no way that she hadn’t seen it, even if she didn’t yet know it was Melanie. 

Melanie didn’t plan on sticking around Magnus Hall long enough for Georgie to find out. Let alone imposing on the person whose home she had broken into. _Jesus_. This was a mess already and she hadn’t even filmed any usable footage.

The further she climbed up the stairs, the more dust she felt like she was breathing in. The place was coated in it, choking from it, a grey ghost coating the very structure of the house. The library, she knew, was on the first floor, on the right hand side of the house. The fire of ‘49 hadn’t fully consumed the house, but there had still been significant damage, and the old smell of smoke still lingered as she stirred up the dust. Still, stepping onto the first floor, if it wasn’t for that faint smell, it would be hard to tell that there had been a fire at all. The proud nature of this home had stood fast against the passage of time, even with all that had come before. 

The library itself was dark and choking, bookcases towering over Melanie with a superiority that immediately made her unseasy. The furniture was covered in white sheets, hunched shapes casting unsettling shadows. Throwing the curtains back, even the cloudy day could not stop the sun from shining though and cutting through the dark like a gunshot. For a moment, while Melanie blinked and tried to rub the spots out of her eyes, she swore she could see shadows swirling in the decades long dust. 

Still, it was only shadows, and Melanie wouldn’t get many views for simply shadows. Setting up the camera alone was a little more unwieldy than if she had her team with her, but, Melanie was nothing if not determined. Finally, it was ready, and, frankly, Melanie had thought she had done a pretty good job with the lighting. An armchair, covered by a white sheet, sat to the side; Melanie dragged it forward into frame, but before she pulled the sheet off, she hesitated. The dust hadn’t settled from her previous movement, and yet, it felt that if she pulled the sheet off, it would disturb the room. And if not the room, certainly something else, though Melanie could not be sure of what. 

The feeling of being watched was back, if it had ever left at all. Instead of chasing away the feeling, the open curtains simply made Melanie feel more exposed, more open.

“Get it together, King,” Melanie said, shaking her head in an attempt to shake away the feeling. “You’ve been in creepier places than this.”

Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled off the sheet. With a surprise sense of vindication, she saw that it was empty. Checking that the video was recording one last time, she sat in the chair, brushed some of the stray hair and dust out of her hair, and took a breath. 

She could do this. This was her job, after all, or at least was supposed to be. It didn’t matter that she was alone. She only felt like she was being watched because of the camera, of the invisible audience behind it. That’s all. She stared directly at the camera, at that oculus, and put on her best smile. 

“Hi there, hunters, and welcome back to the new series of Ghost Hunt UK! This week we’re going to be investigating one of the most overlooked paranormal spots in the whole country; Magnus Hall. Now, seeing as it’s unlikely that many of you will have heard of this place before, let's run down a little of the house's history before we get into the ghosts.

‘Magnus Hall was built in 1899 by Thomas Magnus, as a summer home for his wife, Esther. However, Thomas was somewhat of a gambler, and could not resist a wager, and thus, Esther and her five children only spent three years in the home before the house was gambled away, along with a large portion of the Magnus family fortune. The next owner was one Gertrude Robinson, who was responsible for the beginning of the house’s reputation as a somewhat mysterious place.

‘Not much is known about Gertrude, other than the fact that she spent much of her time absorbed in academia with the help of her assistant, Jonathan Sims, who, after Robinson’s death in 1945, inherited the house and carried on her work. Like many young men of his age, he had just returned from fighting in World War II, and was even more reclusive than his old boss.

‘Unfortunately, even though he survived the war, Sims would not live to the end of the decade. It was April the 1st, 1949, and Sims was due to marry the last surviving Magnus child, Jonah. However, this was sadly not to be, as that was the day that fire ripped through Magnus Hall, trapping Jonathan upstairs in the attic, burning him alive. The news quickly spread that it was not merely an accident as one of the three members of the household, Martin Blackwood, was completely unaccounted for, and had in fact fled to cover up his involvement in the crime. It is believed that this, as well as the fact that the killer was never caught, is why this house has a subsequent history of unlikely betrayals and killings.’

Melanie swallowed, coughing lightly. As she had been speaking, the smell of smoke had become more and more potent, which she accredited to the fact that she had been sitting in one spot for a longer period of time than she had previously. It wasn’t the nice kind of smoke smell, it was almost rancid, like someone was making a barbecue out of rotting meat. Most likely something had crawled into the small spaces in this home and died, but Melanie didn’t want to investigate it immediately. Even with horror tropes singing in the back of her mind, she had just gotten into the flow of the recording. She’ll just have to let Georgie know when she got back. 

She sighed, breathing through her mouth to try and filter out the smell. She can bear it for now. And it’s not as if she can actually document smells on camera.

“A few months later, one of the servents that had worked for Sims was found murdered in the home, and the last of Sims’ servents was convicted for the murder. The house was then used as a convalescent home for servicemen; the notes from that time were found by the next family that moved in a few decades later. This was when the sightings of ghosts and apparitions began in earnest - Apparently the sick and injured men had left offerings of notes and food, bricked up in the still destroyed attic. Appeals to the ghost to leave them alone. _For the love of God, please stop screaming_.’

_**BANG!** _

Melanie wasn’t proud of the fact that she screamed, but she couldn’t help it. The note on her script had always given her shivers anyway, and the loud bang pushed her off the edge. She stood, fast, and headed towards the sound that the noise had come from. It didn’t take her long to find it. Lying in the middle of the carpeted floor, a book lay. It looked old, and trails of dust were still floating slowly downward from the impact. Melanie bent, and picked it up, examining it; _Beaches of the Scottish Coast_. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Expect that it had landed next to a glass cabinet, which, as Melanie tried the door, was still locked shut. And there was a clear, book sized hole, where it was supposed to be within the cabinet. 

She swallowed, feeling her grip on the book slip a little from the cold sweat on her hands. With no small amount of trepidation, she looked on either side of the aisles of bookshelves; there was no one there. She didn’t really know what she would have done if there was. Once she was satisfied that the room was completely empty, and perhaps always had been, she went back to her chair, the camera still recording. 

“This fell,” Melanie explained, holding the book up, “Not quite sure how it could have happened, but it just proves that I need to put cameras in the rest of the house, and quickly too. Alright, now where was I…?”

She picked up her notes, replacing them with the book on the table next to her. 

“Okay, so, strange noises, a shadow figure, cold spots and…” Melanie trailed off as she was suddenly overcome with the smell of cedar wood, coal and charred flesh, eyes watering as if she had just stuck her face right above a chimney. She couldn’t help but cough, the smell seeming to sear itself into her very lungs. Then, as quickly as it came, the smell dissipated, leaving only it’s lingering stench from before.

“...And, the smell of a fire,” Melanie finished, wiping her eyes, “What the _fuck_? I’ve never had a paranormal experience like that, and I never want anything like that again.”

The sun split apart the clouds momentarily, a thankful break from the gloom of the library. It illuminated the paper side of the book, still on the table next to her. It caught her eye, and she picked it up once more, flicking through the pages. As she bent the pages, the picture of a seafront appeared, hidden in the paper edges. It was not the only thing that appeared. Defacing the peaceful scene was one single word, looking as if it had been scorched there, just a moment ago. 

**_L E A V E_ **

Melanie dropped the book, backing away with a speed that was both too fast and too slow for the situation. Her heart pounded, her breath coming in short staccato gasps, and all the time, the camera stood there, watching. Something was watching, there was no denying it, and there was no longer a doubt in her mind that it was the house. To what extent, however, was the reason she was here. 

Logically, a previous owner could have vandalised the books. Logically, the book might have just been left out and never put away while the place was abandoned. Logically, the feeling of being watched was just her imagination. 

What wasn’t logical, however, were the noises that Melanie could hear beyond the library door. Faint thuds on creaking wooden planks - the unmistakable sound of footsteps. 

Melanie moved towards the door, vaguely aware that she should be recording this, but for all the years, all the ghost hunts she had been on, none of them had been when she knew that she was completely and utterly alone. 

“Georgie?” She called, bending over the landing and peering over the railing. She ignored how it was impossible that Georgie would already have been back, that she would have made a lot more noise, “Is that you?”

Only silence greeted her. She leaned back, turning to retrieve her camera, and there, on her right, on the back staircase that would have been used by servants, that was where the corner of her eye caught a shadow. Fleeting, and seemed to be made more of dust than something solid, but it was something. 

Melanie knew she shouldn’t go after random shadows. She knew the tropes, the cliches, and she knew that she should definitely be filming this. Then the floorboards above her creaked, and she took off running. 

She chased the noises up two flights of stairs, fear replaced by the adrenaline and the pump of her blood. It was hot, heady, and she welcomed it, right until the point she reached the last staircase. It was then that she regretted her rash decision. The cold hit her then, not from a cold spot or even a drafty room, but from a rush of dread that she wasn’t sure whether or not it was her own.

The ceiling of the room above her was covered in what looked to be charcoal black spider webs, stretching and looping and ensuring, tendrils reaching towards her in a horrible parody of arms. It looked as if they were frozen mid fall, clutching onto the wall with those terrible, spindly legs. They were spiderwebs, but they could easily be horrible, huge, spiders. That thought alone made her skin crawl, and she wanted nothing more than to run. 

But there was a door ahead, and the noises and led her here, and she had never been one to let things go so easily. 

Trying not to think about how easily spiders would be able to hide in the dark corners behind those black threads, Melanie stepped forward, and grasped the handle. She screamed in pain. Unfathomably, inexplicably, the door handle was burning, and her hand was throbbing as if she had just tried to pull a tray out of the hot red oven. She clutched it to her chest, biting her lip as pained sobs threatened to tear their way out of her throat. She slumped back against the railing on the stairs, breathing heavily. Carefully, she chanced a look at her palm. She stared. There was no way. _No way_. 

The skin on her hand was pale, normal. No blistering, no bubbling burnt skin, nothing to indicate the pain she had just experienced. Even now, the sharp stabbing pain had lessened to a dull throbbing, with nothing to show for it. She stared at it for a few moments longer until the ache had faded away completely, as if it had never been there at all. 

Slowly she stood up, and this time, cautiously approached the door. As she had been taught to do, she tentatively placed the back of her hand against the handle, barely allowing her skin to brush metal. This time, her intake of breath came from the ice cold steel of the door handle. It couldn’t have been further from the red hot, searing pain of just moments prior. It couldn’t have gotten cold so quickly. Not when it had been so hot, so painful. Further investigation of the handle only proved that the door was locked, and despite it’s decrepit appearance, Melanie couldn’t break it down. Not that, after the handle incident, she particularly wanted to. 

She couldn't get down those stairs fast enough. She kept feeling as if the black cobwebs were still clinging to her, watching her, and she was worried that the pain would return as quickly as it had disappeared. The door of the library was still open, where she had left it, but right now, she needed to get out of this shadowy, dust filled house. Later, she would go back in, unpack, get the house ready as Georgie had asked. Later, she would review the footage on her camera, still recording an empty chair. Right now, she sat on the front steps of Magnus Hall and tried to control her breathing. All of this was so much easier when she had a team. When she wasn’t alone.

One thing was for sure; there was no way she was going in that room without Georgie.


	3. in which there is an encounter, of sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Georgie has a lovely walk in the woods, Martin examines his resolve, Sasha and Tim employ extreme methods of recruitment, and Jonah Magnus pays a visit to our protaganist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos! Once more thank you to Ostentenacity and Dew for reading over this chapter and offering me all your wonderful and useful feedback! I hope you all enjoy the chapter and be warned... this is where the spooky stuff starts to ramp up!

_**2019** _

The woods were as still as ice, sun streaming and leaves falling in a caricature of snow around her. They crunched as Georgie walked on, a layer of frost still unmelted in the spots that remained in the shadows. The fresh air was startling. The frigid wind kissed her cheeks, gentle as a lover. It seemed sacrilege, to leave her footprints on the untainted soil, to traipse forward clumsily into a world she knows nothing about. Yet she persisted. It had been so long since she had been in woods such as these; thick and unyielding, a path only trodden by a few. 

Still, even now, she was glad to be away from the house. Perhaps this was a bad sign for her future here, but it was the truth. It wasn’t because of the dust, nor the stranger in her home, or even the fact that there were almost definitely a million spiders hiding in all the dark and hollowed-out spaces. 

It was the eyes. She couldn’t deny it, out here where the gaze of the house could not reach her. It had crawled up the back of her neck, had pulled her attention away from the pretty girl in front of her and her new start. It had perched on her shoulder, watching them. Watching _her._

She wasn’t afraid of it. Georgie Barker hadn’t been afraid for a very, very long time. Rather, she was apprehensive. The drop on the rollercoaster; the pause before the breath. Something was watching, and something was going to happen. She just didn’t know what yet. 

But that was back at the house. Out here, she was surrounded by nature; birdsong and leaves rustling. Out here, the woods grew thicker, hiding her away from the prying eyes of the house. Out here, she was alone. 

A light shadow skipped across her vision, and Georgie stopped dead. She waited, scanning the treeline for any sign of it, whatever it was. 

“Hello?” she called out. She felt stupid for it. As if the trees were going to respond to her. But it was not the trees that she was hoping would answer her. “Is there anyone there?”

For a moment, there was nothing, save for the slow curl of mist as it crept over the leaves towards her. The frost, coupled with the now clouded sky had twisted itself up into fog, and out of those mists… someone moved. 

Not something. Someone. Georgie didn’t see much before the grey figure vanished into the fog, but they were distinctly, plainly human. 

Georgie took a step, then another, the woods tipping forward as she broke into a run. 

“Wait!” she called, leaves kicked up in her wake, her footsteps loud in her ears. “Wait!”

It was only when she paused to catch her breath, clutching her side as a stitch set in, that she looked beyond the path the figure had gone down. 

While she had been running, the unnatural fog had risen, covering the treetops until all but a few feet ahead of her was the damp off-white. It was as tight and as suffocating as a thick cloth across her vision, and she felt dizzy as she twisted each way and that, trying to regain her bearings.

For a moment, all was silence. 

A hitch of breath broke the stillness, and then another. Georgie held hers and listened, frozen to the spot to try and locate the origin of the sound. Uninterrupted, the unsteady breaths became sobs, and the sobs became weeping, the tears of this unknown person so filled with grief seeming to serve only to make the fog thicker. 

She was helpless, trapped in the fog, unable to move or aid her grief-stricken companion. There was a helplessness to the cries, a helplessness that whispered that even if she could move, even if she wanted to, there would be nothing she could do. The longing was palatable, sour-sweet on her tongue, the echoes of undrunk tea and half-written notes. It ached, and Georgie ached with it. She wanted to help; she wanted to sink into the forest floor and wail alongside them. She wanted to lie there, let the spark of life fade from her eyes too. It wasn’t just grief that it breathed into her lungs, it was the end of everything. She felt as she did five years ago, as if all of her progress had become undone in one moment of unending grief.

The hall could not find her here. Melanie would not find her here. The life she had been running from would not find her here. And it was with that understanding that she realised that she was completely and utterly alone.

For the first time in five years, Georgie Barker began to feel afraid. It started as a trickle in the base of her spine, cold as the fog crept up and into her lungs and stole her voice, holding her fast as she listened to the desperate, heartbroken sobs. They were familiar, intimately so, yet she did not remember ever crying like this. It was then that she recognised that it was not her own fear that had invaded her body then, that she was not prone to this gaping terror of loneliness and grief and that, somehow, as the fog had filled the forest, it had filled her with fear.

She could not bear a moment of this loss any longer; she felt she would snap with the weight of it, this grief that was not her own. She took a few steadying breaths, curling her fingers into fists and opening them, palm-up, several times. The feeling of it soothed her anxious breaths, the motion familiar and reassuring. The sobs remained, but she could recognise the difference between her own anticipation and another’s grief weighing solidly in her chest. 

“Come on, Barker,” she muttered, and was surprised that she could still speak. It had felt like the fog was choking her. Her words, as quiet as they were, echoed around her, amplified in the fog. As if there was nothing but empty mist for which her words to be heard, “This is just a manifestation. They don’t want to hurt you. _Come on_ , you know this.”

She forced away the image that swam before her, of lifeless eyes in a face that was still breathing, still familiar, but entirely and utterly soulless. That wasn’t her fate. It would not be; she would not let it. This was her job, though perhaps it had never dug so close to her soul before. With this level of a manifestation, if this spirit was malevolent, it would have already tried to hurt her. It didn’t want to hurt her. It just wanted her to _see._

And then, she heard the scream, a cut off sob rising in panic. It finished, then another sounded, closer, filled with desperation and horror and she almost expected to turn and find someone behind her. She did not turn. The fog held her fast instead, as much as she wanted to run, to escape, to try and help in some way. For as another’s fear had found her, now so did the panic of whoever was screaming. 

And she could not run. She could only shake with another's fear as the scream cut off abruptly and the sounds of splashing filled her ears. The fog was so thick that a lake or a river could be less than six feet away and she could not see it. A witness to a drowning, an intentional drowning, and she could not see a thing. It was a nightmare, and if it wasn’t for the bite of the wind, and her pulse in her ears, she might believe it so. 

“Stop!” she shouted, and the sound shocked her. It felt like that any noise that she would make would be the small, breathy scream of a nightmare, when you know you must shout to stop the horror, but no sound can escape you. But her voice was free and clear, and it echoed through the trees. And still, the sound did not stop. Choking, gagging, a final futile scream. 

Phantom water seeped into her lungs and she forced a breath, forced herself to move, to push forward. 

“STOP!” She screamed, one final effort as she moved her fog-heavy legs forward, and put her foot straight down into something cold and wet.

Blinking, panting with shock, she looked down to see her right foot ankle deep in dark green water. She turned; the path behind her was clear, the sun inviting as it shone down onto the sparkling frost. In front of her—what she had stepped in—was a lake, crystalized in its stillness. Not even ducks sat on its waters. As she removed her foot, dripping water, hers were the only ripples that echoed across the surface. 

There was nothing here. No sign of the assailant, nor the heartbroken victim. Nothing. Like all of that pain had vanished the moment she had tried to change it. 

She had never, ever, seen anything like this. Scooped out, hollow and rung out with another's emotion, she bent over, breathing heavily, focusing on the slow drip, drip, drip, of her sodden shoe.

Georgie had studied EVPs, stood in cold spots, listened to the spirit boxes. She had poured over photographs and footage, and pieced it all together into a story she could spill into a microphone. She believed in her stories in the same way that she believed that there were many things beyond the scope of human understanding; a mystery to solve, something that could be studied and dissected and used as a comfort for those left behind. She knew that something had once taken her friend and her fear from her, and she knew that whatever had happened here was not that, though the memories were far too close for comfort. She knew what was a tourist trap, and what wasn’t; she had seen both, though the first more than the other. It was impossible; no weather front nor natural phenomenon could cause such dense fog so quickly, and certainly, if there had been a drowning here, there would be evidence. 

It shouldn’t be possible. But what other explanation was there? She had seen a ghost. Heard them, must have been close enough to reach out and touch them. And she had listened to their death. Their grief, their fear, it had overcome her, pushing into the land of the living because it _needed_ someone to listen. She was listening now.

“I’m here,” Georgie murmured, straightening up and letting her eyes roam over the lake's surface, “I’m listening.”

The lake was silent; just as the house had been, just as the woods had been. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck were still pointed upwards, still alert, as if the fog could come rushing back and enfurl her at any moment. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” She continued, vaguely aware that she should probably be recording this, “I just want to know what happened to you. Can you tell me your name?”

The wind swept her hair back, picking up suddenly, lifting the leaves around her in a way that was almost panicked, fearful. Ripples spread across the lake, lapping at the shore, breaking lightly over the tips of her shoes. Pushing her away, the wind pulling her back, and Georgie got the strangest sense that something wanted her to _run._

“Enjoying the lake view?”

For the second time that day, Georgie turned with a breathless exclamation of surprise. At least this time, she wasn’t swinging a broken umbrella at the speaker. An elderly man, almost bent over a knobbly walking stick, was smiling unobtrusively at her. Despite his bodily frailty, his eyes were black, dark with a frightening intelligence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genial, “I didn’t mean to startle you. It is not often we get many visitors to the lake.”

“No, it’s alright,” Georgie waved away his concern, smiling. The emotions that had overwhelmed her just moments before had completely gone now, like the fear had been carved out of her. There was no chance of contacting the ghost again, not with an intrusion like that. She would talk to Melanie, see if she could borrow some equipment, a way of reaching out properly. She was so absorbed in her hastily assembled plans that she almost forgot to continue speaking. “I just had a bit of a scare, that’s all.”

“These woods do that to people,” He replied, “Especially visitors.”

“Oh, I’m not a visitor,” Georgie said. “I just moved here. Do you know it? Magnus Hall?”

The man stiffened, his smile remaining still, but whatever flashed in his eyes was lost to Georgie as he bowed his head. 

“I do. How does a young lady such as yourself come to possess such a place?”

“A relative,” Georgie said, “I didn’t even know that there was a house.”

“Ah, so, a windfall for you, then!” The man straightened up, and his smile was, once again, true. “I take it you’ve heard the tales.”

“Not many,” Georgie replied, scratching the back of her neck, where the hairs still remained resolutely prickled. “Only rumours. About the fire.”

“Oh, it was dreadful. Truly dreadful. To see such a proud home go up in flames… A terrible waste.”

“You were there?”

“I remember it clear as day. I was a much younger man, then, but, oh, it was truly terrible. Poor Jon… it was such a horrible way to die. And they say his killer drowned himself in this lake here, that’s why they never found the devil.”

Georgie froze, the echoes of a drowning from decades past still at the forefront of her mind, “Wait, he drowned _himself_?”

"That is what they say.” He replied. “Jealousy made him burn down the house, and grief sent him to hell. I certainly hope he is there, for all the damage he did.”

Even though the words did not surprise Georgie much, the tone of venom that was laced through them did.

“Are… are you sure he did it himself? That it wasn’t… a murder, or something like that?”

The old man frowned, cocking his head and examining her with those black eyes, “It is only a rumour. I wouldn’t trouble yourself with the disappearance of a long-dead murderer.”

His tone suggested no more words would be spoken on the topic, and Georgie grasped for a thread of conversation much in the same way that the drowning man had grasped for air.

“Do you, do you live nearby?”

“Not too far from here. After the fire, I moved away, got married,” His smile returned, light and affable, “But there is something about this place. It always draws you back in. When I returned, my husband and I… we hoped to return that house back to its former glory. Make it as proud as it once was. After my husband died there, I could not bear to leave. So I have a small cottage, and I keep a watchful eye on the place, when I can.”

Georgie nodded in understanding. A part of her wanted desperately to ask how his husband had died in the house, desperate to get that piece of the story. It was with difficulty that all she offered was an apology. “I’m sorry.”

He waved her away. “It was a very long time ago now, and sympathy is wasted on a lonely old man such as myself,” He coughed then, leaning heavily on his walking stick, which, Georgie could see, was intricately carved, though she could not make out the pattern, “Are you all alone, in that big house?” 

“No,” Georgie said, shaking her head. “I’ve got my cat and I have a… a friend staying with me.”

“Understandable,” he said. “That house is far too big for one living soul.”

The way he said it made Georgie shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. 

“Ah, but I must be keeping you,” he continued. “You had best be careful not to wander in these woods too far. It is a lot easier for someone to get lost than it looks. Stick to the path around the lake, or the main road, and you’ll find yourself in the village soon enough.”

“Oh, thank you,” Georgie said, smiling at him, “I’m still very much finding my way around. One of the locals, Keckwick dropped me off.”

“While filling your head with horror stories, no doubt. Don’t believe a word they say down in the village,” he warned, his tone suddenly more serious than before. “They’ll have you thinking that the whole house is stuffed full of ghosts. The only thing left in that house is dust and horrible memories.” 

“Isn’t that all a ghost is?” Georgie asked, “A memory?”

The man smiled and his eyes glistened in the light of the cloudless sky. “You remind me of our dear Jonathan, lord rest his soul. Insatiably curious, that one. Until the fire swallowed him whole. You take care now, Miss..?”

“Barker. Georgie Barker.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Barker. I’m sure we will run into each other again soon enough.”

Then with a parting smile and polite nod, he turned and left. It was only as the etched eyes on his walking stick winked at her, that she realised that she had never asked for his name in return.

Food first, Georgie decided, then she could fill Melanie in on the experience once she returned home. The ghosts were dead. They could wait one more night before she uncovered their secrets.

* * *

_**1949** _

After their meeting in the library, not much had changed between Jon and Martin, at least on the surface. Jon still criticized aspects of Martin’s work, but it was less thoughtless, less unintentionally cruel. He was more patient when Martin took a couple of tries to get the work correct, pointed out ways for Martin to improve the work, rather than simply the ways in which it was wrong. Not all the time, but no one changes overnight. 

Every time Jon tried, Martin’s heart beat a little bit faster. They didn’t talk about Jonah Magnus, apart from an affirmative gesture when Martin had asked whether Jon had secured the funding he wanted. They didn’t talk about Jon’s scars, or about how Martin was sure he was becoming more and more agoraphobic by the day. 

But when Sasha brought up lunch, more times than not, Martin would be able to cajole Jon into stepping away from his work while he ate. At dinner, he could even be persuaded to join the rest of them for a time, even if he protested that his work was delayed. 

Martin told himself that it wasn’t just for Jon that he continued to coax him into socialisation. It was for how Tim broke out old and fond in jokes. It was for how Sasha was able to discuss Jon’s latest work with him with a ruthless level of intelligence that Jon appeared to relish. It was for Jon’s small smiles as he watched Sasha and Tim bicker, those stolen expressions that made him look so much younger, so beautiful, in the flickering candlelight. 

“He was one of us, see,” Sasha explained as Martin helped her clear up after lunch one afternoon, “Miss Robinson’s assistant. Hired, just like we were. She ate her meals in the dining room, we all ate together here. That is, until she started inviting him in, more and more. And then, when she died…. We all helped with the research in one way or another, I just don’t think he ever expected to be the one in charge of it.”

“If anything, we were expecting Sasha to be the one Miss Robinson left it all too,” Tim said, from the doorway, “It should have been.”

“Tim,” Sasha started, in a voice that spoke of an oft-tread argument. 

“ _Sasha,_ ” Tim responded in a well worn tone, before sighing, “I know what you’re going to say. It’s not his fault.”

“That’s because it isn’t. He didn’t write the will-”

“But he could have given it to you, instead of trying to take it all on his shoulders,” Tim continued. “And he especially could have stayed our friend, instead of pretending he’s something he’s not.”

“Tim, he’s working it out. And he’s still our friend.”

“He’s been working it out for four years,” Tim said, and turned around to leave the kitchen. “And he’s only just started hiring assistants again! He needs to work it out, and soon.”

Sasha sighed, and threw her rag into the sink. 

“Should we follow him?” Martin asked, glancing anxiously at the door through which Tim had just left. 

“Best to let him be for a while,” Sasha said. “I’ll go talk to him later. It’s just… frustrating. We want to help, but he won’t let us. And as much as we might want too… we can’t stay here forever.”

“You’re leaving?” Martin asked, surprised.

“Not for a while, I don’t think. But we’ve both been talking about it for a while, and, we just want to make sure that we’re leaving Jon in good hands.”

Martin put a plate to the side to dry, pausing, and thinking about how to phrase his next question.

“What did Tim mean, only just started hiring assistants again?”

Sasha stopped, her hands now still in the sink. She didn’t look at Martin as she spoke, “Every assistant before you, Martin, lied about why they came here.”

Martin’s mouth went dry, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Sasha said, turning her head to look at him, “That Magnus sent them. Or at least, pointed them at the path towards us. Michael wasn’t working for anybody—he just had a grudge against Gertrude—but Jon found letters from Magnus that told him where she had lived before she died. But Rosie? She was definitely reporting to Magnus.”

“Reporting on _what_?”

“Jon, mainly. His work, the research, the house. Both occasions, it took us a long time to persuade him to get another assistant. Rosie was very carefully vetted, and even then, she was lying to us. After that, Jon hasn’t left the house.”

“But _why?_ ” Martin asked. “His father lost the house years ago. He comes from money. What does he need from _this_ house?”

“You said it yourself, Martin. He comes from money. The loss of his family home bites at his pride. He has all the money in the world, so he wants to own things no one else can. Knowledge. _Jon’s_ knowledge. How better to salvage his pride than to own the life's work of the woman who took it?” 

She looked to Martin, then, and smiled reassuringly. “I’m telling you this because I trust you. We trust you.” 

She let the words hang in the air for a moment, let their seriousness sink in. Martin could feel the guilt curdling in his stomach, a spoiled milk mix of shame and fear. If they found out about his past, about his mother, about _Peter Lukas,_ all of this would be ruined. The thought of that was more than he could bear, and he turned away from her, unable to look her in the eyes.

The doorbell rang, and Martin looked up, trying to gauge a distraction from his burning cheeks. “That’ll, that’ll be the next batch of Jon’s statements,” He said, and moved to the door, “Best get back to work.”

“Go on, go stop our fearless leader from being eaten alive by improperly filed statements,” Sasha laughed, and Martin gratefully left the kitchen, into the hall, to where a figure stood behind the stained glass of the front door. 

Except, when he opened it, he didn’t see the familiar face of the postman. 

“Hello, Martin,” said the tall figure of Jonah Magnus, black eyes glittering, holding a business case to his side and a stack of papers neatly in his arm, “What a pleasure to see you again! I’ve brought some statements for our dear Jon, and if it isn’t much trouble, I was hoping to spare a moment alone with him.”

“Ah, one moment—” Martin did not open the door to let him in but looked to the living room, then up, to the attic where Jon’s office stood. There was no sign of Jon, who was most likely already working, but that didn’t mean that Martin should let Jonah in. Especially after what had happened the last time he met the man. Especially after what Sasha said. 

“Actually,” Martin said, barely even realising what he was saying until the words were out of his mouth, “He’s not feeling his best right now. He’s not seeing any visitors.”

“Oh, that is a real shame,” Magnus replied, a concerned downturn to his mouth that contrasted with the complete and utter lack of empathy in his eyes, “Can’t I simply call this a social visit from an old friend?”

His voice was wheedling, and needled into Martin’s mind. This was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The smile of a man who was expecting to be let in anyway. 

“No,” Martin said firmly, “Jon needs rest, not a social call. I can tell him you called, though? I’m sure he will be able to write to you in a few days.”

Magnus stared. Martin met his gaze, and he did not open the door. Slowly, the man tilted his head, and a slow, conniving smile spread across his face. It was the first real expression Martin had ever seen on him. 

“Curious,” he said, “Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly.”

“You don’t know how Jon treats me.”

“Oh, but I do, _Martin_. This is my house. Do you really think I don’t know every single thing that goes on in my house? Even when I am not there?”

Martin suppressed a shiver. Magnus stepped forwards, almost pressing himself up against the front door. Martin held fast, and did not let the door go.

“You don’t frighten me, Mr Magnus,” he said, wishing very, very hard that he believed it. 

“That may be so, Martin,” Magnus said, “But it is not _you_ that I am concerned with.”

Then, even though his black eyes bored into Martin’s own, and Martin feared that he would force his way into the house, he stepped back, and smiled genially. 

“Do tell Jon I stopped by, won’t you? It is a simple funding matter that we need to discuss.”

With a polite nod of his head, he turned, climbing into his car, and with one last lingering look to Martin, drove off. Martin waited until even the dust of his car had disappeared, and pulled back, letting out a shaky breath. 

He rested his head against the door for just a second, but a small noise above him made him turn and tilt his head towards the balcony. Jon’s thin face, bent over the railing opposite the library door; he must have heard the entire exchange. From here, his expression was inscrutable, but Martin could still feel the whole of his intense gaze. As suddenly as he had noticed it, Jon stood up and silently disappeared from view. 

He was gone for now, but, sure as the sun, Jonah Magnus would be back. Martin didn’t think he would be ready when he did.


	4. in which there is a sleepless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is fog, the Admiral lives up to his name, Jon recalls some history, there is only one (sofa) bed, and the author shows off their passing knowledge of trashy ghost hunting shows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I know this is a day late but, I got some really great RL news yesterday that completely distracted me and I was busy working on a few of the later chapters and just, completely forgot about the day! 
> 
> Anyways, here I am, with some spooky shennanigians for you all! Please, please comment/share/kudos/subscribe if you are enjoying it so far, they feed me and help me fill out the backlog so this doesn't become just another of my WIPS.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

_**1949** _

Whenever Martin lay down that night, he couldn’t get Magnus’ eyes and Sasha’s words out of his head. They echoed around, tolling like a bell, and every so often his stomach rolled with a storm of guilt and he had to sit up to try and calm the broiling sea inside him. 

Martin was used to nights like these, the twisting of words and feelings into guilt; guilt he wasn’t enough, guilt that he had left his mother alone in that huge and dirty city, guilt that he was free and safe and away from her. What he wasn’t used to, was the feeling that he was completely and utterly in the wrong. 

He had done a lot of things to provide for his mother; lying was just part of it. He had never lied to his _friends_ before.

He had friends, for maybe the first time in his life, and his whole relationship with them was built on a lie. It made him want to throw up. 

Finally giving up on sleep, he stood and walked to his desk, where there was a half finished letter to his mother. It was full of scratched lines and false assurances, and the promise that he’ll do better, that he’ll _be_ better. She most likely wouldn’t reply, but that wasn’t the point. She might reply, she might say something that would make this lie all worthwhile, she’ll tell him that the money he sends her is good enough, that she’s safe and she’s happy, and maybe, if she did, the guilt would ease because he would be lying for the right reasons. 

The walls of his room pressed on him as he sat, staring at the ink-splattered paper. He was aware of every creak, every breath the house took in time with the three other occupants. Jon would be in his room by now, just across the hall. Unaware, unknowing that Martin was just as much of a liar and a traitor as his past assistants. He could barely take it, balling up the letter and throwing it to the bin as he tried to control himself.

He couldn’t breathe. He tried to count to seven, but he couldn’t make it before the twist of guilt stole it away from him. Not with the guilt lying heavily in his lungs, pressing down, too close, choking, strangling. A grave of his own making, spiralling him deeper and deeper into the dirt, into the rot, into the _lie-_

He had to get out of this goddamn house.

He barely registered pulling on his coat, running down the stairs as if his life depended on it. It wasn’t until he heard the gentle lapping of water that he could breathe again. 

The moon hung high in the sky at this time of night, and the breaking of the trees around the lake felt like he had just come up for air. Perhaps being out at this time of night should have scared him, but he wasn’t scared. Not of the woods, nor of the lake, anyway. The light of the moon was far more comforting than any streetlight in a dark alley of london would ever be

The lake was an expanse of silver, a mirror to the world, and Martin didn’t want to look down and see himself reflected there. The surface reflected tree branches, reaching towards the sky, the moon, efferecent as it accepted their offerings and the gentle light of the galaxies far beyond. 

In the face of such beauty, Martin did not want to put his face, red and puffy, near to it, to blemish it. 

The rocks at the edge of the lake shuffled, falling down the small ledge and creating ripples in the water as Martin sat down, holding his head in his hands. Small sobs were muffled by his palms, long since used to the art of crying silently. _Pathetic_ . He thought, viciously, _Utterly pathetic._

He couldn’t stand to be in that house like this. Consecrated ground, and who was he to tread on it? Who was he to put his lies anywhere near Jon? Jon, who for some reason, still dealt with Magnus with politeness, even though his wariness, no, his fear, of the other man was palaple?

How could Martin, liar, traitor, betrayer, do this to Jon? How could he sit there and cry as if it wasn’t his fault in the first place?

“Goodness, Martin, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Martin scrambled to his feed at the sound of the voice, the rocks sliding and slipping under his shoes. 

Framed in moonlight, looking exactly the same as he had the last time Martin had seen him, an indulgent smile on his face, was Peter Lukas. His ice blue eyes dug into Martin’s heart and began to freeze it. The air was colder, crisper, and it made it hard for Martin to draw breath to form a sentence, until he did.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Now, Martin, no need to be rude. I was just checking up on my favorite employee.”

“I am not your employee!” Martin said, a hot rush of anger flooding through him, and Lukas blinked in what was almost surprise. The anger pumped through him, settling in his bloodstream, keeping him warm against the ice of Peter Lukas. 

“We both know that isn’t quite true.” Peter smiled. 

“I left,” Martin said, shortly. “I left, Peter, and I’m not coming back.”

“You can’t tell me you enjoy that place?” Peter replied, amused, “Disregarding the atrocity of it’s architecture, how can a liar such as yourself even stand to be in a place that searches for the truth?”

“It’s not about the house.”

“I’d say that it is. I’m quite friendly with one Jonah Magnus. I'm sure you can understand his… ambition to return to his family home.”

“No,” Martin said, quickly, far too quickly, backing away from Peter. “No, I won’t let you do this to me again.”

“Look at you, Martin,” Peter said, and it is only now that Martin can hear how his voice is pretending to be kind, “You’re a complete mess. Do you really think you can stand up to Jonah? I’m sure your Jonathan has warned you about him. He’ll _see_ you for who you truly are, and he _will_ tell Jonathan.”

“I don’t care.” Martin said, his voice shaking despite himself.

“You clearly do. Hm. I thought I taught you better than that,” Peter stepped towards him then, and Martin didn’t step away, tilting his chin up to meet Peter’s gaze, “It won’t just be Jon that he tells, you know. Everyone will know you. Everyone will see you, for who you truly are.”

“Stop it,” Martin said. 

“That place isn't safe, Martin." Peter said, smiling fondly, like one would a small child. "It is Jonah's domain and it all will be his soon enough. Come back with me. Come back and be safe. I'll take care of you, you know. Haven't I always?"

Martin shuddered as Peter touched a cold hand to the side of his cheek, sending spiderwebs of shivers down his spine. 

“We’re the same, Martin. You don’t need him, you don’t need anyone. Come back, and be unseen, unjudged. You won’t have to lie. You’ve never had to lie to me, Martin, and isn’t that a relief? You won’t have to feel like _this_ anymore. Come back, and be _safe._ ”

Martin breathed heavily, in for seven, out for eleven. Then he met Peter’s gaze, and took a deliberate step back. “No. I said no, Peter.”

Peter's hand hung in the air, and there is now true surprise in his eyes. 

“Martin-,”

“I’m going,” Martin said, starting to move back towards the house. “Don’t contact me again, Peter.”

“What about your mother?” Peter called, and Martin froze, his back to Peter. 

“What about her?” He replied, careful. 

“What happens when your precious Jon runs out of money, hm? What use is your loyalty and your lies and all this… all this petty worry, when your only reason for being here is gone?”  
Martin took another heavy breath, feeling his fingers curl into his palms, before twisting around to face Peter again.

“What are you even talking about-?” Martin stopped. Peter had gone. In his wake was nothing but the gentle crashing of water over stone. 

Martin blinked, waiting for that familiar coat to cross his vision once more, before the adrenaline left him all in a rush and he felt his legs start to shake. 

Peter had barely ever left the estate and suddenly, he had been here, for _him_. Why? Why was Martin so special to him? And how the hell did he know Jonah Magnus?

All of a sudden, Martin felt very very small. This was supposed to be a simple filing job, for god's sake! Research and note-taking, that was it, and instead, he had been pulled, once again, into the war between people who were far more important than Martin himself. 

He should go. Peter knew where he was, and he had made it very clear he was willing to expose Martin should he want too. Martin should go, make his apologies to Sasha and Tim, tell them that something urgent has come up in London, that he really has to go and he doesn’t know when he can be back. 

Go home and get a job somewhere that doesn’t have skeletons in the closet and doesn’t look too closely at his employment record. Go home, and take care of his mother himself, and survive with the consequences. 

He should, but he doesn’t _want_ to. He wants to live, and he wants to stay with his friends and he wants… he wants to protect Jon from whatever may try to harm him. 

Martin had nothing before. It had been a choice between the gaping distance and sharp words of his mother, or the smothering nature of the Lukas estate. Neither choice let him be free, let him be just… Martin. And he could survive with that, but it wasn’t _living_ . Now he finally had a taste of it, of the fresh warmth of Tim’s smile, of Sasha’s practical caring nature, even of Jon’s soft and strange kindness. He had tasted what he had missed his whole life, and it was intoxicating. Suddenly, Martin had a _reason_. 

Martin?” Footsteps fell onto the stones of the lakeside as Martin turned to face - well, for a moment, he feared it would be Peter Lukas, back again, or even worse, Jonah Magnus, but no, a familiar thin face stared back at him. Jon blinked owlishly in the moonlight. Silver illuminated the strands of grey in his hair, almost like a crown of light around his temple. “Martin, what are you doing out here?” 

“I… I couldn't sleep.” It wasn’t a lie. 

Jon sighed. “You aren’t the only one.”

“Is one of the statements keeping you up?” Martin asked, racking his brains to remember the statements that he had filed that morning, “The… one with the ghost spider?”

Jon shook his head, even as he shuddered. “It was a particularly distasteful statement, but no. That wasn’t what kept me awake.”

He stepped forward, next to Martin, his hands clasped carefully behind his back. Martin watched the silhouette of his face in the moonlight, the slope of his nose and the high frames of his cheeks. If Martin was a sculptor, he would want to capture the gently quizzical look of Jon’s features in marble, keep this moment set in stone forever. 

“Why did you do what you did today?” Jon asked, suddenly. 

“What do you mean?”

“With Jonah,” Jon clarified, “You sent him away. He tried to see me, and you stopped him. Why?”

Why? The question spun around Martin’s mind. The answer was simple, yet not. Because he wanted to protect Jon, protect him from whatever the man did to him that made him hide away in his own home because Jonah was looking for him. Because he hated the way that Jon wrote letters to Jonah like a puppet forced to hold a pen. Because Tim and Sasha were trying to protect him too. Because Martin wanted Jon to be safe.

“I don’t like bullies,” Martin said, finally, “I’ve met far too many of them. Men who think their status means they can do whatever they want to anyone else.”

“Like your previous employer?” Jon asked, and Martin startled. He didn’t think Jon would have remembered that small detail from their conversation in the library. 

“Yes,” Martin said, and because his mouth liked to continue speaking without his brain, “Your home should be safe. It’s not when he’s there.”

Jon made a noise somewhere between a huff and a hollow laugh. He shook his head. 

"The house isn't safe." Jon said, spitting out the words. "It never has been. The only place I feel safe... Is here"

“Even in the middle of the night?”

Jon nodded, “Especially in the middle of the night. Jonah can’t find me here. The others are safe in slumber, or as safe as they can be. I can breathe. I can be me. Just me. It’s as much as I can hope for after… well, after everything.”

“If you want to be alone, Jon -”

“Stay.” Jon said, so quickly that his voice almost cracked on the word. “I wouldn’t presume to make you leave. Just me, not your employer.”

He gestured to a large rock, and, folding his legs up like a thin deck chair, sat down upon it. Hesitantly, Martin joined him, and for a moment, both of them simply took in the beauty of the lake at night. 

Still, Martin found his eyes drawn away from the gaze of the moon, and more and more towards Jon; the gentle rise and fall of his breaths, the greying curls hanging loosely around his ears. Jon was so small like this, so much younger than he appeared to the outside world. Out here, where the moonlight gently brushed away the premature lines in his face, the scars on his face were thrown into sharper relief. Martin was seized by an urge to reach out hand, to cup Jon’s face, run his fingers over the marks and -

He caught himself there, turning red and thanking the darkness for keeping it hidden from Jon. What his daydream had been about to stray into was unthinkable. Impossible. Unimaginable.

And yet here he was, imagining it, and suddenly the vhenemance of the guilt threatened to overwhelm him once more. Obscured as he was in the darkness, the clarity of realisation struck him like a moonbeam; Guilt he was used too, but this had something else to it, a feeling that Martin was quickly realising could no longer be denied. 

“Jon,” He said, suddenly, “If I can ask, that is, if you want to answer, I just wanted to know-”

“I don’t have all night, Martin.” Jon said, an echo of his usual day time admonishments, and when Martin looked him, he saw a faint teasing smile on Jon’s face, a slight quirk of the lips (-no, don't think about Jon’s lips, definitely _do not_ do that-) that betrayed his light-hearted air.

Martin hated that his question would take the smile off his face. “Jon, what… How did you and Tim get your scars?”

Jon’s expression withdrew, and it was this moment that Martin should have made his comparison to a statue, because if it wasn’t for the slight breathing coming from Jon, Martin would think he had been spontaneously petrified. 

“You researched me, you said.”

“I don’t want to listen to Jonah’s lies anymore,” Martin said, “I want to hear the true story. Your story. But only if you want to speak it, Jon, I will not force you.”

“A story implies that there is a happy ending.” Jon said, after a moment’s pause. 

“Not always,” Martin replied, “Not necessarily.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, before Jon took a large shaking breath. 

“I will tell a story,” He said, finally, “Gertrude used to say that there are always three truths. Your truth, their truth, and the real truth. You can decide which one this is.”

‘Before the war, I was Gertrude’s assistant. We all assisted her to some degree; Tim knew plenty of people in London, and was excellent at following up certain details. Sasha’s ability to spot falsehoods, as well as patterns where others may see truths and mere coincidences was uncanny. I read, and I sorted, and I researched, and then, like many others, I marched to war. Tim and I were stationed close to the north of Norway, and letters would reach us very rarely; often redacted, as Sasha talked fondly of the particulars of home. But there was another who wrote to me, and me alone. Jonah and I had met when he came to discuss the work with Gertrude. I knew that it used to be his family home, but he… I thought he was like me. He steered me towards leads and information, connections I wouldn’t have made on my own. I thought he believed in the truth, uncovering it, declaring it, proving it to the world. So when a letter from him reached me, suggesting that there may be important information located in the furthest, most desolate place on the planet… I believed him. Ny-Ålesund had been abandoned in 1941 after a failed attempt to restart it’s coal mine by the Nazi occupation, but it was so far out of the way that it made sense that if the Nazis wanted to keep something hidden, they would hide it there. He said he had contacts in the Ministry of Defense, spies who talked of a weapon that would blind thousands. They called it the Dark Sun. It sounded impossible, but it was a war of impossibility. I believed him. I was wrong.’

‘I told Tim. He had never particularly liked Magnus, but he agreed that he had never been wrong before. I told him he did not have to come with me. He argued otherwise, and together, we petitioned our commander to let us take a small squadron, just for a recon mission, just to scout. He refused. Tim… I told him, I told him again and again, that he did not have to do this with me. He refused every single time. In the end, I’m not sure what he did, but we were in a plane, ready to parachute into the northernmost settlement on Earth a few days later. There were five men with us. Under, technically, my command, though we all knew that Tim had a better knack for comradeship. They trusted him, and through him, me. They were wrong.

The town was as empty as we had expected when we landed. There was no sign of anything; no life, no secret experimental bunker. By the time we had combed through half of the buildings, something unnamed began to build in my gut. Not fear. Dread, perhaps. Standing on the edge of a cliff and just waiting to fall. By the time we reached the old coal mine, we had found… nothing. The entire place was empty. The mine was dark, and the picks lay on the ground as if their owners might return momentarily. I wanted to go deeper, further into the cramped corridors, the endless dark. The others were less than impressed, even when I offered to go alone, so as not to endanger them. There had to be something, I insisted. Even then, I could not believe that Jonah would lie to me. Tim wasn’t shouting, but I could feel his frustration. I wish he had listened to me. I wish they all had. None of them should have been there.’ 

‘It was Eric, I think. Just as Tim and I started to move past disagreement and well into an argument, he lent back, just resting himself against the wall of the mine. We didn’t know. We had no way of knowing that the miners, whether they were working against the Nazi‘s or for them, had trapped the entire mine with explosives. They told me that the others, at least, were killed instantly, as the debris shredded them right the way through, tiny shards of rock and coal splintering and burrowing into their skin. I remember a split second of absolute agony, and then… Nothing. I woke later, back into a medical ship on our way back to England. Tim hadn’t been as badly hurt, and had been able to signal the plane that had dropped us off for rescue. But if it wasn’t for whatever papers Tim falsified or somehow got signed that requisitioned the plane for us… we would almost have certainly been shot for desertion. We returned to England, too injured now to fight, and that is when he found out that Gertrude had died. As maybe because I was hurt and couldn’t leave my bed, or perhaps because I blamed myself for the death of my squadron, but, I was the only one who suspected anything out of the ordinary. I suspected everyone, even Sasha, for a time, before the two of them slapped me out of. Literally, in Sasha’s case. But there was something definitely wrong. The only person I had left to suspect… was Jonah. I had no hard proof, nothing that would prove for sure that he killed her. Only… Only that he had come to play poker with her the night before, and Sasha remembered that he had worn gloves for the entire evening.’

Martin had listened in rapt horror as Jon told his tale, shaken to the core. 

“Jonah…. Jonah is a murderer?” He asked. 

“When I confronted him about it,” Jon continued, “He made it clear that there would never be any proof to his crime. I told him I would tell the truth, I would make sure the whole world knew what he had done. The next day, stories of Ny-Ålesund appeared in the papers. I was branded a coward, mad, a murderer by proxy. That’s when I knew that Jonah would stop at nothing to get his hands on Gertrude’s research, on her life’s work, just to avenge his family’s pride.”

“Jon, I…” Martin, careful in his movements, reached forward. His thoughts were only of comfort, to offer it, as he let his hand envelop Jon’s, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Jon replied, settling from a mild startle into squeezing Martin’s hand. The motion sent shivers up Martin’s spine. 

“Jon, I… I’ll never let him into the house, he’ll never come near you again.” 

“You can’t,” Jon said, sadly, “You’re kind, Martin, but you can’t. You don’t know what he’ll do. I won’t be responsible for putting you in danger. You’ve already done it twice.”

Martin watched the quiet defeat in Jon’s eyes, and it broke his heart. A voice that sounded far, far too much like Peter Lukas whispered in his mind; _see how much he trusts you? See how much he cares when he trusts you? Do you see how much pain you will cause when he finds out you have been lying this whole time?_

“Jon,” Martin said, and Jon turned his head to look at him.

“If you’ve got a question about why I'm arachnophobic, that will have to wait, I’ve told too many horror stories tonight.”

“No!” Martin said quickly, “No, it's not that. I wanted to tell you something. Because you told me the truth, even when you didn’t have to.”

“Martin…” Jon sighed, and it sounded almost _fond_. 

“Peter Lukas.” Martin blurted out. “That’s who I worked for before. Lukas. And I hated it, and he was horrible, and I hated who I was when I was with him, and I _left_ . I left even though the money was more than I could ever want in my life and it still wasn't enough for my mother, I left even though it meant I could look after her. I left and I came here, and he was at the party and then he was here, by the lake, and he wanted me to go back with him and I _refused_ , Jon, because I never want to be the person he made me again _._ ”

“Wait, wait, hold on, Martin. Peter Lukas who was with Jonah?”

Martin nodded miserably, convinced in that moment that Jon would fire him, push him away, orhe thought hysterically, even worse, he would let go of his hand. Instead, Jon’s grip on his hand tightened, and he stood up, pulling Martin up with him. 

“Peter Lukas was here?”

Martin nodded again. 

“Come on, we’re going back to the house,” Jon said and began to pull Martin along. 

“Wait, Jon,” Martin said, pulling him to a stop, “Jon, you’re not mad?’ That I worked for someone that Jonah works with?”

Jon paused for a moment, and then squeezed Martin’s hand and began to lead him forwards with more gentleness this time, “No, Martin. I’m not mad. I’m… I’m really glad you told me. Thank you, Martin.”

And even though Lukas’s voice still whispered cold fog into Martin’s mind, Martin felt warmer than he had in years. For the moment, he held on tight to Jon’s hand, pushed his revelations away, and thought not of the moment he would have to inevitably let go. 

* * *

_**2019** _

“So, you’re telling me,” Melanie said, jabbing her fork into badly seasoned bolognese, “That we both experienced extremely powerful manifestations, and neither of us got it on camera?”

“I’m a podcaster!” Georgie protested, even as she smiled. “I don’t carry a camera around!”

“You said there were sounds , you couldn’t have at least recorded it?”

“I imagine that my reasons for not recording it are very similar to yours.” Georgie replied. 

Melanie picked at her pasta for a moment, reflecting over the events of the day. “It wanted to be seen but… Not by the cameras. By us, maybe. That’s what you said about yours, right? That it felt like it was trying to show you something?”

“He was about to, I think, if that old man hadn’t interrupted. I think the presence of another person put him off.”

“Makes sense, considering that no one has been able to capture these ghosts on objective equipment,” Melanie sighed, putting down her fork, no longer hungry, “Even if I had brought the camera with me to investigate, it wouldn’t have shown anything.I didn’t see the book flying off the shelf, and the camera was pointed at me, so it missed it too. And apart from the black spiders webs upstairs, my thermal was downstairs, and because there’s no physical sign of harm…”

“We can’t prove that it burnt you.” Georgie finished. “And because the spirit in the forest only showed itself through vague noises and the intrusion of his feelings on mine, that's not exactly something we can prove on camera. It could easily be the old guy mourning his husband.”

“You didn’t get his name, did you? I’d like to do an interview or something, seeing as he appears to know so much about the place.”

Georgie shook her head. “But, he lives nearby so I’m sure we’ll see him again.”

She stood up, clearing away their plates now that they were both done with eating cheap spaghetti. The Admiral, happy as a clam now he had been fed, hopped onto Melanie’s lap and began to purr. She stroked his thick fur, calming herself in his presence. She didn’t like this house, that much she knew. Whether that was enough to make her leave was a different matter entirely. She had certainly been in places with more violent spirits; evil people in life and positively monstrous in death. Yet, she had never faced one that had attacked her so directly. Between the message and the burn, she was sure that her presence, at least in the eyes of the dead, was unwelcome.

“What do you think we should do now?” Melanie asked. 

“Is there any other answer to that question,” Georgie replied, “But to stay?”

“Oh my god, we’re going to end up in a shitty horror movie,” Malanie groaned, “It already burnt my hand! You almost got lost in ghost fog!”

“I think we can cope with a little bit of ghost fog.” Georgie said, turning around to face Malanie now. 

“You know that isn’t the point.”

Georgie sighed, shaking her head, “I know your point. But I can’t just leave. Beyond just, the logistics of all of my stuff and getting a place in London again… this place has a story. I can feel it. Whatever, whoever was in the woods was trying to talk to me, communicating the only way it knew how.”

“Well, whatever is in this house burnt my hand, and threw a book with the word ‘leave’ burned into it!” Melanie exclaimed, “If that is the way the spirit in this house communicates, I don’t want to see it’s idea of a full conversation. This spirit could be malicious, actively malicious in a way that neither of us are prepared for.”

“You’re welcome to leave, Melanie,” Georgie said, softly. There was no judgement in her voice; if it had been anyone else, Melanie would have assumed it was a hint to get her out of the house. But no, despite knowing her for less than a day, she had a feeling that Georgie cared more about her well-being than anyone else she had worked with in the last few years, “But I have a feeling you want to figure this out as much as I do.”

Melanie’s shoulders slumped slightly, and she scratched behind the Admiral’s ears. 

“I do. I really, really do. No one else has ever figured out what happened here, and… I can’t shake the feeling that something about what happened here is _wrong_. The story doesn’t make sense. Not the way the house feels, not the way the spirits have reached out to us.”

“So, what you’re saying is… You ain’t afraid of no ghost?” Georgie said, face breaking into a smile as she saw Melanie groan. 

“I apologised for the shitty ghostbusters joke didn’t I? You don't have to keep throwing it in my face!”

“Watch better movies then!” Georgie retorted, folding her arms and leaning back against the counter. “Right, now that’s sorted, planning time. How many cameras have you got?”

“I’ve got a few go-pros, a thermal imaging camera and one all-in-one set up for the better quality. I want to set the thermal upstairs, near the attic. That was the source of the fire in ‘49, if the handle trick wants to repeat itself, I want to get it on camera this time.”

Georgie nodded, “Good idea. Go-pros, I think, in the main hall, the library and at least Sims’ bedroom. The kitchen, and the front porch as well, if you have enough. I’d like to get one in the attic, but I think we can wait until tomorrow before we try and force the door. I’d like to go and do a proper investigation of the lake; have you got a spirit box or something?”

“I’ve got an EVP as well, if you want to take both. Might make it easier for it to communicate. Do you want the main camera in the living room?”

“I was thinking upstairs, with the thermal, actually.”

Melanie groaned again, “I don’t want black cobwebs on two of my best cameras!”

“They’re not actually cobwebs, Mel. It’s a chain of ionized soot particles. They’re pretty common after housefires, though I’m not sure why these are still here after so long.”

Melanie blinked in surprise at the use of a nickname, especially so soon, and felt her cheeks redden slightly. “Fine, I’ll set it up upstairs, but if it gets covered in soot, I’m blaming you. At least no giant fire-proof spiders are gonna eat me in the night. Speaking of the night, where are you thinking about sleeping?”

“Before I realised the place was haunted, generally the bedroom is a good place to start,”

Melanie rolled her eyes as Georgie continued, “But, considering I don’t really want to sleep in an accused murderer's bed, I was thinking of bunking down in the living room for the time being. You’re welcome to take your pick of any of the bedrooms.”

Melanie considered for a moment, trying to work out how to phrase her next words. “With the rest of Ghosthunt, whenever we stayed overnight at a place like this, we’d camp in the same room, with one of us keeping watch. Now we’ve got the camera to do that for us, but…”

“If it makes you feel safer, you can stay with me.” Georgie said, soft and careful, and Melanie’s shoulders slumped in relief. 

“Sorry, I… I’ve never done this stuff on my own before.”

“It’s alright,” Georgie said, still smiling softly, and Melanie found herself trusting that smile implicitly. God, if Georgie was any kinder, anymore, well, _Georgie_ , then Melanie was well and truly _fucked_ , “I want you to stay. I haven’t worked with someone like this for a long time...”

There was a sad smile on her face, a mask hiding something far more painful underneath, and Melanie decided not to push her on this.

“What, the Admiral isn’t assistant producer or something?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s executive producer.”

Melanie couldn’t help but laugh then, startling the Admiral out of her lap, scarpering off towards the door with speed, his pudgy legs hardly keeping pace with the rest of his body. The sight only made Melanie laugh harder, and this made Georgie laugh, which made Melanie laugh, in a wonderful circle of mirth echoing throughout the old, abandoned home. 

For a moment, though neither of them heard it, it seemed like theirs was not the only laughter in the halls, the memory of laughter on a bright day in the kitchen reverberating around their own like a warm embrace. 

When they had calmed, and Melanie was able to wipe the tears from her eyes without breaking into another burst, Georgie moved towards the door. 

“Come on. We should get the camera set up before we head to bed. If we miss something again I don’t know if my followers could ever forgive me!”

“If you miss anything again, I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you.” Melanie retorted, walking over to her equipment bags and pulling out tangles of wire and an armful of reattachable go-pro stands. 

Georgie stuck her tongue out at Melanie as she left the room. 

All in all, the set-up didn’t take too long. They were both experts at what they did, and they moved together like they had been doing it all their lives. Before long, Georgie was heading downstairs with a mountain of blankets and pillows from the bedrooms, intent on giving them a good whacking to clear them of dust, passing Melanie on a ladder, hooking up the final camera. 

“You coming?” She asked, “The Admiral’s already tucked himself into the softest chair, and if you don’t arrive soon all that will be left is the floor.”

“Hold your horses, I’m coming. I’m just gonna brush my teeth first.”

Off to the right of the main living room was a small guest bathroom, which Melanie slipped into as Georgie violently beat the dust out of a blanket that looked like it had been made in the 1800’s, and hadn’t been used since then. In all likelihood, it might have done. 

The bathroom was opulent, if a little musty from the years of abandonment. There was a layer of grime on every surface that Melanie quickly wiped down before climbing into her pajamas. Looking around the room as she brushed her teeth, it was easy to imagine this place as it had been so long ago. She walked carefully over the textured window, mindful not to step on places that carried a little too much dust. There was an elegant rose pattern curled within the pane, delicately teetering the line between privacy for the residents and wanting to accentuate the scenery outside. The woods were visible beyond, though warped and twisted out of view in the darkness of the late night. 

Something moved beyond the woods. As distorted as the glass made the entire world seen, Melanie had been sure that something had moved again. She did not even realise she was holding her breath until no movement came for a full minute and she released it. 

The woods must be full of animals. A rabbit, or a bird, that was all. Or, even as likely, her imagination. 

She strode back to the sink, determinedly not looking back at the window, and spat, turning on the hot tap in an effort to wash her face and get the hell out of here. The tap sputtered for a moment, shaking seemingly in its effort to produce warm water, and a thin steam issued forth from it, before it began to drip steadily into the sink.

She placed her hand under the stream, but rather than the heat that she would have expected from the steam rapidly fogging up the mirror and the window, the water that hit her hand was ice cold. She pulled away in shock and looked up in time for her vision to become covered in cold clinging fog. Melanie scrabbled for the tap, but her hands closed over only air. 

The window; she had to open the window, clear the air; at this point, surrounded by mist that felt like it wasn’t just blocking her vision but invading her mouth and nose, clogging her breaths and filling her lungs. 

She stumbled forward, and somehow, in this endless, impossible cloud, she found the cool texture of the window, and the handle below. 

For a second, as she struggled to push the window out and open she thought she felt the imprint, the faintest echo of large, cold hands on hers, pushing her, (pushing with her?). For a moment there was a moment of desperate cold certainty, as the fog and ice pushed their way into her lungs, that she was sure she was going to drown. The window swung open; the feeling of pressure on her hands lifted, released, and when she blinked, the bathroom was clear again. 

Melanie beat a hasty exit then, though she forced herself not to break into a full sprint. 

“Georgie-” She began, though she didn’t quite know exactly what she was going to say, but Georgie’s expression made her stop. Her eyes were wide in, not quite in fear, but certainly in alarm, and she pressed an urgent finger to her lips. 

In the middle of the room, face twisted in an unnatural expression, the Admiral sat, teeth bared, hissing quietly at the door. His back was arched and his fur stood on end as if he had been electrocuted. His hiss turned into small growls at intermittent points, a sound that Melanie didn’t even know that cats could make. Despite Georgie trying to run a calming hand down his back, his gaze was fixated on the door to the living room. Melanie’s heart quickened, and almost without her bidding, she felt her body turn to the source of the Admiral’s fear. Her panic from before was almost washed away when she laid her eyes upon it, replacing it with ice-tinged dread, dripping down her spine and splashing into the bottomless hole that had appeared suddenly in her stomach. She had never before been so frozen in fear, barely able to breathe as her body prepared for either fight or flight. 

The door, carved dark wood, with a thickset golden handle. The handle, which was shaking and rattling with a level of force that was impossible from just, a faulty handle or stiff breeze. Somone, or something was on the other side. Slowly, unrelentingly, something was trying to turn the lock.

Melanie moved quickly to Georgie’s side, joining the Admiral in his vigil of the door. Unbidden, Georgie’s hand slipped into hers, even as her other hand twisted her fingers into Admiral’s scruff. After the cold fog of the bedroom, Melanie was all the more grateful for her warmth, even with the movement of the handle sent shivers down her spine. The gentle scraping of metal on metal became more frantic, the handle shaking with such force that Melanie feared that the handle would break the door. 

“Should we… should we block the door?” Melanie breathed. 

“Wait,” Georgie said, and held Melanie’s hand firm as the rattling reached a fever pitch until, somehow, it reached a full rotation, and still shaking with the force, the door swung open. It slammed hard against the wall and stopped still instantly, as if a hand pressed it back. The gaping maw of the door hungered, open and waiting at the entrance. It hungered. And it hungered still, as nothing, neither living nor dead, stepped forward to feed it.

The emptiness of the hall outside was somehow more terrifying than if an intruder had been standing there. The moment stood, as they both stared into nothing; no dust had been distubed, and there was no sign of anyone having ran off, no receding footsteps. 

“Holy shit…” Melanie whispered, shakily, and that seemed to break the spell. Georgie scooped the Admiral, who mewled gently for attention as if nothing had happened, into her arms in one singual motion, and slammed the living room door shut. 

“Are you okay?” She asked, turning back to Melanie, “You didn’t sound great, coming out of the bathroom.”

Melanie blinked, the question confusing her. Somehow, the fear of what had just occurred had seemed so much worse than the mist that had surrounded her in the bathroom. 

“There was fog. Like what happened in the woods, to you, I think. Only for a moment, but, still.”

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No, no, I’m okay. Just,” She rubbed her arms, fighting off her shivers, “Freaked out.”

“Understandable. We can block the door if that makes you feel better?”

“I think I’m going to struggle to sleep no matter what.”

“Fair enough,” Georgie shrugged, and began to set out her blankets for bed, climbing onto the first sofa and letting the Admiral settle himself on her stomach. Melanie did the same, and after a moment's hesitation, pushed her sofa closer to Georgie’s, within arms reach. Georgie smiled at her, and did not object. 

In fact, as Melanie settled into her pile of blankets, Georgie extended her hand and gently covered Melanie’s fingers. 

“I don’t think they _want_ to hurt us, Mel.”

“Only, you know, scare the living shit out of us,” Melanie said, “Do you think we’ll really be able to find out what happened?”

“It’s what we do, isn’t it? Uncover stories?”

Melanie laughed quietly. “You make it sound like the stories we find _aren’t_ full of murder and death.”

“Only some of the time,” Georgie said, “You mentioned that there were other… murders here, beyond just the fire. The remaining servants turned on each other?”

“Not what I would generally class as pillow talk,” Melanie teased, before her tone turned more serious, “But yeah, about a year later. Even then… something feels _off_ about it. This place supposedly makes people turn on each other, but they were there for years before anything happened, and they hadn’t lived here for months before the murder. Could just be coincidence that was blown out of proportion. Besides,” she smiled, again trying to lighten the mood, “I don’t want to murder you, yet.”

“It’s the yet I’m worried about,” Georgie replied, before moving back to the previous conversation topic, “They still alive, the one that survived?” 

Melanie sighed, her diversion attempt having failed, “Housed at the nearby Hill Top Hospital; I phoned the staff a few weeks ago, told them I was a long-lost niece. I was going to visit tomorrow.”

“If I go to the lake and take some readings, I can see if I can find the old man again,” Georgie mused, “Get some contact details, and we can get both interviews done. We could even go into town and ask around the old fashioned way.”

Melanie both liked and worried about how quickly their separate projects had become a ‘we’. It sent a thrill down her spine that had nothing to do with the ghosts, and partly to do with the fear of what exactly would happen when there was nothing left to investigate with Georgie. How hard, now, after what had happened, it would be to part. 

“Sure!” Melanie said, and tried not to let these thoughts ruin the fact that a pretty girl was lying next to her, holding her hand, “Do you want me to turn out the lights?”

Georgie chuckled. “I’m not a fan of the dark. We can leave them on for now.”

“A ghost hunter, scared of the dark?” Melanie smiled.

“I never said I was scared,” Georgie corrected, “Only that I wasn’t a fan.”

“Alright,” Melanie said, a fond smile on her face, and how quick had that happened, that her smiles had turned so fond so fast? “Goodnight, Georgie.”

“Goodnight, Mels.”

There was silence for a few precious moments. Melanie could lie there, with Georgie’s hand in hers and pretend that they were not sleeping in a haunted house, that the blankets didn’t smell of spilled tea and smoke. 

Then the banging started. Loud and heavy, it echoed around the house, fists on wood, pounding unrelentingly against the entrance to the house. There was strength to it that was inhuman, yet, it could be nothing other than distressed hands, pleading, begging to be let inside. Lying there, her eyes closed in a mockery of sleep, Melanie squeezed Georgie’s hand, and felt her squeeze back. 

**_BANG. BANG._ **

“In the woods,” She said, not daring to open her eyes, “With the fog, were… were you scared?”

**_BANG. BANG._ **

“It wasn’t my fear,” Georgie replied, “But yes. I was scared.”

There was a small thud, and then Melanie felt warmth on her face, and her ears were filled with the sound of the Admiral’s purring, muffling the sounds of the door. 

“And… you knew it wouldn’t hurt you? The manifestation?”

“I think,” Georgie said, “I think he’s scared. More than anything, I think he’s _terrified_.”

“What do you think is so terrifying that a ghost is scared of it?”

Georgie’s grip on Melanie’s hand tightened. Melanie did not complain, though it felt like Georgie was squeezing the blood from her fingers. All the while, stricken with the same grief in death as in life, the spirit outside continued its relentless, desperate barrage upon the entrance, every sound begging for mercy. Mercy from what, though, Melanie could not say.

As if in response, the wind that whistled through all the cracks and crannies of the house, and the women both listened as the very walls seemed to heave and sob with the weight of grief, calling out to that which demanded entry. There was no storm outside, Melanie knew, and yet the wind screamed its anguish, and a long, reverberating wail ghosted behind it. It was far too human to be the wind. It was too inhuman to not be.

"I don’t know,” Georgie said, finally, and her voice burned with determination. It was hard to give herself entirely over to fear with that voice at her side, “But I intend to find out.”


	5. in which an investigation takes place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jon reflects on events thus far, Melanie gets into VR, and Martin forgets to send a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big big TW for body horror (of the desolution kind) 
> 
> This was one of my faviroute chapters to write, so I'm excited to see your reactions to it!!! Just a heads up I am really really trying to finish this asap because life events have started to pick up a bit, but if there is a slight delay to chapters beyond chapter 8.... that's why. Just forwarning all my lovely readers! And seriously, thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos, they mean so much to me!!!!
> 
> As always, love to my wonderful, amazing Dew. I love you.

_**2019** _

“I can’t believe this,” Melanie said, rewinding her way through the footage of the front door for the third time, “There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

The banging, and it’s associated wailing had not ceased, at least not while Melanie had heard it before she had finally fallen asleep, her hand still intertwined with Georgie’s. Indeed, she had been confused when she had woken up to find the day clear, light trickling in through gaps in the thick red curtains, and the sound of birdsong the only noises loud enough to hear. That and the gentle rise and fall of Georgie’s breath, which was far more reassuring to her than how she had used to listen to What the Ghost while on overnight haunts. 

Eventually, however, Georgie had awoken, and they had the task of trawling through eight hours of footage from various different cameras. Except, to their increasing dismay, there was nothing of substance to be seen. While the door incident, or at the very least, the part in which the door was flung open, had been captured, there were no phantoms pictured there, and the same was true with the front door; no impressions, no long exposure, not even a shadow had appeared within the frame. The only thing that had remained there, come morning, had been a small puddle of water on the doorstep, one which quickly evaporated in the brightening sun. 

“There wasn’t anything on the thermal. And the EVP’s showed small spikes, but nothing of particular interest. Nothing we would expect, anyway.”

Melanie sighed, and put down the camera. “I want to go through the footage frame by frame, even try and increase the brightness, see if anything comes up then.”

Georgie nodded, “Might take you a while, though.”

“Gives you enough time to go out to the lake, get what you wanted from there, before we can go and do the interview at Hill Top?” Melanie said, but watched how Georgie’s face fell slightly.

“Are you okay?” Melanie asked.

Georgie’s frown deepened, “Are you sure you’re okay with being alone here? After yesterday?”

“Are you scared to go into the woods?” Melanie countered, avoiding the question.

“It isn’t  _ my  _ fear that worries me,” Georgie said.

“Then what does? Because you don’t have to worry about me-”

“I’m not worried  _ about  _ you, Mel, I know you are capable of handling yourself. I’m worried  _ for  _ you. And whether I’ll be able to do my damn job.” The last part was said under her breath, quiet enough that Melanie wasn’t sure whether it was meant to be said aloud or not.

“Georgie, what do you mean?” Melanie asked, standing up from where she was sitting. 

“You were uncomfortable enough to want to leave last night, even before… well, everything. I don’t want to force you to stay.”

“Georgie…” Melanie sighed, “I knew when I came to this place it was going to be weird. And yes, this place gives me the creeps and I… When I was in the library, I’ll admit it, I was scared. Scared enough that I didn’t even think of my show, or how great the footage might be. But I only suggested leaving last night, in the vaguest possible sense, because I wanted to give you an out, like you gave me.

“I don’t have to go to the lake alone,” Georgie suggested, “I can wait, if you want.”

Melanie, in that moment, wished more than anything that she could accept the offer of companionship. Georgie herself wasn’t scared about going into the woods. It was Melanie who was holding her back, stopping them from working as an effective team. Just like last time. Holding everyone back, stopping them from doing their damn job. Therefore, reluctantly, she shook her head.

“I appreciate the offer, but we can’t. The spirit by the lake, you said yourself, is more likely to appear if you’re alone. It’s the best chance you’ve got. I can handle anything this house throws at me.”

“Just…” Georgie paused, “Just promise me you’ll be careful. And come find me if anything too spooky happens.”

“Will do, boss,” Melanie gave a mock salute before turning to head up the stairs. Her destination was the second floor, where the bedrooms, and her last camera were. If she wanted to look through the footage before Georgie returned, she would need to get right to it. Even if she wasn’t consciously aware of it, she wanted to prove herself, prove she was still  _ good  _ at what she did, that she wasn’t just a scared girl looking for ghosts and then running away at the first sign of them.

“Melanie,” Georgie called from the bottom of the stairs, and Melanie turned. She could see Georgie worrying her lower lip as she hoisted a bag onto her back, presumably filled with various pieces of technical equipment, and looked up at her, “I’ll be back by lunch, okay? Then we’ll go to Hill Top together.”

There was an implicit message there;  _ if I’m not back by then, come and find me, _ and Melanie presumed the same would go for her. 

“Sure,” Melanie replied, “I’m with you.”

She wanted to etch that moment, where Georgie smiled at her from the bottom of the staircase, and even though Melanie had seen Georgie laughing, teasing with a light air, seen her serious as well as concerned and worried and determined. But, she had not yet seen her so joyously, fleetingly happy at the very thought that, no matter what, Melanie was with her. A moment later, though, the very air of the house seemed to turn cold, and Georgie’s face set in determination before she turned towards the door. 

“Good luck,” Melanie said, more to herself than to anything, and proceeded up the stairs. 

When she entered the room that had once been Jonathan Sims’ bedroom, she could not stop herself from crossing the room to the window as quickly as she could to get one last look at Georgie before she disappeared into the foliage.

It was then that she remembered something else that Georgie had said; about how she had been worried about whether she could do her own job in the woods. Melanie didn’t doubt that she could, but she wanted to kick herself for not following up on that remark. She had listened to Georgie as she told her story the night before, and believed it, but perhaps she had been too harsh on her for not getting footage. Being afraid of a few ghostly footsteps and strange noises was one thing; being forced to experience another’s grief was quite another. She knew all too well that cloying taste, the way grief wrapped you up within a blanket under an illusion of comfort, trapping you inside in a rotting prison of your own making. 

Georgie had experienced that, and Melanie was watching her willingly walk into it again, and yet Georgie was still concerned with  _ her _ . Not simply concerned as if she was a co-worker, it sounded like she was worried, as a friend. Melanie shook herself. A day was not long enough to call Georgie Barker a friend, no matter how much she wanted that already. 

Now, more than ever, she missed her crew. She missed her  _ friends _ . She missed not having to concern herself with scorn; because when there was, she had her crew, her friends there to back her up. And now even they had abandoned her, left her with disbelieving and pitying eyes, left her to crawl her broken reputation back with clawed hands. And sure, she was going to use the house to do that, but she didn’t want to use  _ Georgie _ . 

It had been only a day, and yet she could not tear her eyes away from Georgie’s form as she entered the woods, Melanie’s palm resting against the glass in a gesture that one who was more romantically inclined might have called affectionate. 

She didn’t know exactly what she noticed first that alerted her. Perhaps it had been the slowly rising smell, light and almost pleasant, then stronger, thicker, until she could taste rotten wood and ashes in the back of her throat. Maybe it was the sting in her eyes, tears falling not from emotion, but simply because she could no longer hold them back. Could it be the flicker in the back of her vision, a dull orange that could be a sunrise, if she wasn’t sure it was well into the morning? 

Melanie felt the heat, the press of dry and allconsuming flames, and this was when she turned around. She took a breath; perhaps in shock, perhaps in fear, perhaps because there was nothing else she could do. She took a breath and a second later was coughing and wheezing, and the smoke and the heat surrounded her, enveloping her in their agonising embrace. 

She blinked, tears falling to the ground and boiling before they landed, and she was no longer in the bedroom. Instead, she was in a long, rectangle room, and the flames were reaching desperately for her through the cracks in the single door. She could see their orange glow blazing, burning steadily, with no hope of escape. The flames had begun to encroach on the room, and the papers which covered the walls were quickly catching alight. She had no idea what was written on them, but she felt their loss as keenly as if they had been photographs of her father. They were precious to her, she knows, or perhaps they were precious to the person that she used to be, before the heat began. She cried out, even as it was cut short by another, smoke filled cough.

It was then she realised that she was not alone in the room. As she coughed, hacking and choking, supporting herself with one hand on a windowsill that was growing hotter by the second, there was another beside her doing the same. Thin, dressed in ill-fitting, second hand clothes that are already covered in soot and cinders, dark skin and hair peppered with white, or perhaps it was ash. The smoke was too thick to see his features clearly, but she knew his fear as intimately as she knew her own. 

The man did not see her; he was too busy cradling his left hand to his chest, and Melanie recoiled when she saw the bubbling, boiling flesh that was there. The same that should have been on her hand, had the handle from last night been truly burning.

They’re going to die here, her and this man she has never met, united in their fear and terror and… heartache? Because it isn’t just terror that seized her now, it was agony of a different kind. Georgie would never know what happened, only that she had died horribly and in pain, and god, dying here now, would hurt Georgie. It would burn her in the same way that Melanie was burning now. Yet, even with this realisation, she was glad. Glad because Georgie had left, she hadn’t stayed and been caught in this torment. 

The man moved beside her. He staggered forward, and for a terrified moment, Melanie thought that he was going to try and run for the door, open it and let the fire claim them both in his attempt to escape. Instead, he cried out in pain as his injured hand hit his desk, his other scrabbling for paper, a pencil, and gritting his teeth against the worst of the pain, he began to write. Melanie didn’t know why, not when the paper on his desk was already starting to curl and blacken in the heat; how could anything survive this? She had already realised that they were not going to. 

The man paused his scribbling, glance darting to the door as if he was checking a clock and not his approaching demise. He then folded it, and after a motion that Melanie did not quite see, as overcome by the smoke as she was, he bent down, under the desk, pulling away the back panel to reveal a safe. Old-fashioned, but likely heavy duty; and certainly much more likely to survive a fire. She did not see the combination he entered, nor the contents as he shoved his note into there and even went to the trouble of placing the back panel over it once more. 

Then, the man stood, and looked straight at her. His gaze was singular, almost as burning as the fire, and for a brief second, the intensity of being caught in his sight was more agonising than her approaching death. There was grief there, but there was also a mixture of anger and indignation and more than that, the raging pain of unspent vengeance. This man knew what, or who, had killed him, and he raged silently against the unfairness of it. For a brief moment, Melanie feared that she would bear the brunt of his fury, his misplaced anger at the end of his life.

Instead, he stumbled forward, his breaths hunching him over, and he fell forward, his uninjured hand pressed against the window. His hand, which Melanie now saw in detail, with dark flesh and strange circular scars peppered along it. A hand that she only saw now, because it had passed through her chest. 

She wanted to scream, but the smoke blanketed her lungs and it was cut short in her throat. Her flesh was burning, she could smell the tips of her hair sizzling, her blood boiling underneath her skin, and yet, this man, this stranger, reached through her, and whispered something to the world beyond the glass.

The door behind them finally gave way under the pressure of the heat, and the fire surged into the room like a wild animal unleashed. It tore apart the remaining papers, growing ever hungrier as it took greedy gulps of the oxygen remaining, and then it was upon them. The force of it was immense, and Melanie felt the glass behind her warp and shatter more than she saw the breaking. 

As the fire claimed them in its unrelenting maw, she heard the man beside her start to scream. She was only vaguely aware that she was doing the same, though she was not sure whether it was in reaction to her own pain, the blistering boiling heat across every fibre of her being, or if it was because she was watching the man beside her be burned alive. His skin began to crisp, warp and curl under the heat, the fire sloughing off the outer layers of skin as easily as one would peel off an overcoat; and still the man screamed. He screamed even when his skin was almost gone, dropping off him in charred pieces until the muscle and blood and sinew were blackened too. He screamed even as liquid dripped from his eye sockets and Melanie knew, with overwhelming horror, that it was not tears he shed.

The sweet, oil-like smell of charred skin reached the back of her throat and finally she dropped to the floor, expecting her hands to burn as she touched the flame-engulfed wood.

Instead, she felt rough but  _ cold  _ woven wool, and while she continued to try and hack her lungs up through her chest, there was only the memory of ash and burning flesh there.

She blinked once more and felt cold tears, only this time they were of horrified relief. The room around her was not the burning room she had expected, but the bedroom she had watched Georgie leave from. The bedroom, whose camera she had yet to retrieve. 

She had fallen forward, she noticed now, and her hand was throbbing where she had hit it against the desk in front of her. She took a few moments to collect herself, there on the floor. Quietly apologises to Sims for throwing up in one of his fancy black bins because of the remaining taste in her mouth, before standing, still using the desk for support. Melanie would not, could not, allow herself to be overwhelmed at this moment, not until she had checked the footage. Nevermind that it was still all too easy to smell smoke where there may in fact be none, or to feel the phantom of burning flesh.

_ Now we know why the ghost is screaming,  _ she thought, and immediately felt sick again. She wouldn’t think of it. Not until she had to, not until she told Georgie. She had a feeling that she was going to see enough of it in her nightmares to spare a thought for it during the day.

Her eyes now were drawn to one of the drawers on the desk, now slightly ajar. Apparently, her fall and her hand’s collision with the desk had caused it to dislodge. She rubbed at her bruised hand, grimacing. Reaching into the drawer, however, she saw that there appeared to be stacks of receipts; all for the boring things academics and scholars might need, books, materials, requests for research papers and publications. She flicked through them with some disinterest, just to see if there was anything interesting before she checked the cameras, until a page with a handwritten note scribbled onto it caught her attention. 

A receipt for a custom built safe, installed in 1935, and the note that was scribbled across the top, in a hand that looked like a spider had dipped itself in ink before crawling away to die, read: 

_ The last day she ever loved something _

Below that, in slightly neater handwriting, was written:

_ Jesus, dramatic or what, boss? _

Unbidden, her mind flashed to the safe she had seen the man hide his last correspondence. Was this a reminder of the passcode? Not that it meant anything to her, of course, but it might be a good question to add to the interview, when she finally got to Hilltop Hospital. 

She pulled it out of the pile, before climbing onto the chair next to her and detaching the small camera from the wall. Melanie had stayed in here long enough. She was more than happy to leave the bedroom and head downstairs, where the Admiral twisted his way around her ankles as she plugged the camera into her laptop to review the footage. 

She sped past most of the first eight or nine hours of footage, she didn’t expect there to be anything after the lack of any kind of spectre on any of the other cameras, but she did slow down once light began to make its way into the bedroom, and slowed down even further when she saw herself enter the room and head straight for the window. It was strange to watch herself on the screen. Even after all this time, first editing her show at home on her own, to watching rough cuts of herself and giving notes on improvements, back to editing alone again, it was still strange to watch this copy of herself. This person, who, just moments ago, had been her, and yet was not, detached, removed from her forever. Even then, Melanie on the screen may not share the same experience, the same nightmare that Melanie sitting at the computer recalls in horrific clarity. 

The Melanie that stood in the bedroom placed her hand on the window, and static began to rise. At first, only a light buzzing, a minor interference, but as the moment approached that Melanie knew she had been pulled into the nightmare, the whole screen erupted in it, a swarm of angry electrical insects filling the screen and obscuring her view. 

“No, no, no, no, no!” Melanie said, hitting the side of the laptop in a desperate attempt to clear the screen. When the static cleared, she saw herself panting and shaking on the floor, seemingly for no reason. If anyone was to see that, they would think she was as mad as all the rumours said she was. She went back. Right back, to when the past Melanie entered the room, and slowed down the footage to half what it had been before. Again, slower, past Melanie placed her hand on the window, and again, slower, the static rose to envelop her.

Again. Half of the previous speed. Again and again and again, until she was watching for the differences in individual frames, searching for any hint of smoke or flame or the man who had died with her. 

There were flickers, now that she was looking frame by frame. She saw herself, distorted, hunched over by the window. A twisted frame where her mouth was stretched to the degree that her whole face resembled an open, screaming mouth. But no flames. No fire. And certainly no sign of her companion. 

The footage continued to play, frame by frame, but she didn’t want to see anymore. This was no proof, nothing to show her that what she had experienced hadn’t been some kind of waking nightmare brought about by lack of sleep. She ran her hand down her face, and when she glanced back to the computer, she again saw herself, shaken and distressed on the floor. If anyone saw that, they would think she had lost her mind. Georgie would think that she had lost her mind.

Then the picture changed, and the clawing hand of terror reached back up her throat. She scrambled for the pause button, and froze the picture, as she herself was now frozen in terror. 

Above her digital form, there was a shadow that seemed to be formed of smoke and soot. It towered over her, its, for lack of a better word, shoulders hunched. One arm, if one could call it that, reached out, and appeared to point - or perhaps it was pulling - to the drawer, half-open. Half-open, where it had not been a frame before.

The frame changed, skipped, even though Melanie was sure she had paused it, and the figure was gone. The only thing that remained, as the Melanie of the past got to her feet and began rifling through the desk, was a handprint, black as coal, pressed into the pale glass of the window behind her. 

Melanie wanted to go upstairs and see if it was still there. She wanted to run into the woods and leave this house behind. She wanted to find Georgie. No, she  _ needed  _ to find Georgie. She needed Georgie to tell her that this wasn’t just her imagination, because, despite all that had happened the night before, she did not trust her isolated judgement. Hasty in her movements, she slammed the laptop closed, shoved it, the bedroom camera, and the found receipt into her bag, and stood. 

She had to find Georgie. Even with this resolution in her mind, she could not help the shiver that ran through her as she crossed the threshold. She refused to turn around. Refused to look at the top of the stairs, because in that moment, she felt the same angry, hurt and vengeful gaze as she had in the inferno on the back of her neck. 

The house watched her leave. It only needed to wait. And as it waited, it  _ yearned _ .

* * *

_**1949** _

Jon was not an idealistic man. His years, first as Gertrude’s assistant, then fighting in a war, and a cynical part of him would argue that the first was worse than the last, had almost stamped that level of belief and hope from him. He was not an idealistic man. Gertrude had trained him well; in searching for the truth in the paranormal, the esoteric. He had, in essence, become a living library for horror and fear. It had been what she needed, someone to remember and recall the statements that she could then link, further investigate, carry out whatever exactly her research was. It worked. He only needed to remember, and to read. Tim was always excellent at follow-up, prying information out of even the most hesitant person and leaving them with a smile on their face. Sasha was the one that truly thrived under Gertrude’s tutelage; able to solve problems, ever capable, she was the one that helped put the pieces of the puzzle together. 

Then came the war, and Gertrude was  murdered  dead, and he was a library without his librarian. An archive without the archivist. 

He had tried, god, he had tried. Sasha and Tim had both believed in him, both believed that he knew something about Gertrude and her research that would allow it all to continue. At first he included them as once they had worked together, but everything was wrong now. The closer they were, the more they would know how completely and utterly unqualified for the position. That he had no idea what he was really doing. What else could he do but push them away after that? What would become of Gertrude’s life’s work if he did not complete it? Would it all fall into Jonah’s hands, after everything he had done, of what Jon  _ knew  _ he had done? It was a task he would not force onto his friends. So he retreated, and prepared, and worked, long days, longer nights, going over statements again and again. He tried so hard. 

He compiled statements, sent to him by Gerry, who sought them out on Gertrude’s, and now, on his behalf. Jon recorded them, labelled them, picked out the ones that felt particularly  _ wrong _ . He tried to find the pattern that Gertrude had been following her whole life, followed coincidences and names and dates round in circles. He couldn’t let the others see that he was failing. They had faith in him, and they had stuck by him, even Tim, even when he shouldn’t have. Even after what Jonah did, making him a pariah in the press, they stood by him. Even as he shrank further and further into himself, treating them more and more as his assistants rather than his friends, they stayed. They thought he knew what he was doing. Jon couldn’t let them know otherwise. More than once, he wondered if it was more of Jonah’s doing, keeping him ever running after his own tail until he finally came crawling back to Jonah for answers. Jonah, who had murdered Gertrude, even if he had no proof beyond speculation. Jonah, who had made him unreliable and cowardly in the eyes of the public, so that even if he did find evidence, it wasn’t like anyone would believe him. 

He didn’t know how long he could last. Every day was another brick wall, another dead end or false lead. He couldn’t ask the others for help; then they would know that he was failing,  _ had  _ failed. The assistants that he had hired, in moments of desperation, had only set things back. So when Sasha suggested he try one final assistant, he almost refused. 

And then Jonah told him his…  _ proposal _ , and Jon, between a terrible choice and merely a misguided one, he chose to take a chance. He trusted Sasha, and in return, she gave him… well, she hired Martin.

Martin, who had promised a degree in the relatively new field of parapsychology from University College London, who appeared to have extensive organisational experience, or so Sasha told him. Finally, finally, someone who could help him put together the pieces; more than that, someone that was completely unconnected to Jonah. 

And then Martin arrived, and Jon’s hopes were severely dashed. Jon was used to reading and recording, and he read Martin like an open book the moment he arrived. Cheap suit, twisting and fidgeting hands that threatened the sanctity of his organisational system that he had only just managed to get his head around, even in the kindness of his eyes, Jon saw pity there, and he hated it. He was doing just fine! He didn’t need an assistant (he did), he didn’t need someone to tell him gently that it was time to stop working (he did) or to bring him tea! To make it worse, Martin was not the saviour that he had been hoping for. He put files in the wrong places, lacked basic academic knowledge and often seemed not to have a clue where to start when it came to following up statements. 

Jon knew, in the back of his mind, that it was not fair to blame Martin for his continued failure to live up to Gertrude’s legacy. It wasn’t fair, but it was easy. Easy, when the alternative that everything in his life that he had been working towards was all coming to naught. He considered firing Martin, especially with… the funding issues that had been all the more common recently. 

But it was Sasha, again, that had persuaded him otherwise. To give Martin a few more weeks, to settle into his new role. It hadn’t been the first time that he had lamented that Sasha had not been named to be Gertrude’s successor in her will. This job was supposed to be hers, and yet, here he was.

Then again, if Sasha had been given this responsibility, then it would have been her dealing with Jonah and his advances, and Jon… Jon did not wish that on anyone, especially not one of his closest and only friends. He trusted them, he trusted Tim and Sasha, but he was also responsible for them. For their safety. 

He resigned himself to putting up with Martin’s delays and failures for another few weeks, though he had to begrudgingly admit to himself that they were becoming less and less frequent. Still not acceptable, but he was improving. 

And then the party came, and all of Jon’ assumptions about Martin went flying out of the window. In fact, they not only flew out of the window, but got onto an airplane and took off for the furthest part of the globe. 

Martin lied. Martin lied  _ well _ . He lied to Jonah Magnus, of all people, and he did so almost without batting an eyelid. And most of all, he lied  _ for Jon _ . All Jon had been to him was critical and cold and cruel, and still, he lied for Jon. Covered for him. 

Jon could not, for the life of him, figure out why. Martin owed him no loyalty; he did not have years of friendship, nor had Jon been a particularly kind or considerate employer, but still. Still, Martin had lied for him. He did not know of the danger of Jonah Magnus, and he had stepped in front of Jon, to protect him. Jon could only fathom that it was an attempt to impress him, to show his employer what he could do, even if that didn't really make sense. It was the only explanation as to why Martin would do what he did.

Then he did it again. Only this time, with the understanding of who Jonah Magnus was and what he could do, though perhaps not the whole picture. He did it again, even when he thought Jon was not there, he did it anyway. His only theory disproved, Jon had spent much of the night awake turning over the two events in his mind. He tried to find answers, but, as he had been taught, he could only recall, in perfect detail, how Martin had kept protecting him, with seemingly no thought to either punishment or reward. Finally, he had decided to confront the man about it, no matter how late the hour, and had been surprised to find Martin’s room empty. There had been papers scattered on the table, letters in handwriting that Jon had often admonished, but Jon did not read them. Returning to his own room, he had seen Martin’s familiar shadow slip into the woods, and had, without really thinking it though, left the house to follow him. 

Jon had not expected what had followed. Apart from the library, they had not shared much that wasn’t a lecture on Jon’s part, or a rundown of information that Martin had collected on the latest batch of statements. Jon had asked, and Martin’s answer had been so simple, and yet so damming. Because… because Martin did not like bullies. And what had Jon been to him except a bully, under the guise of professional disappointment? It was with this sense of guilt, and an air of almost obligation, that Jon had answered Martin’s question. But it wasn’t just that he felt guilty, or that a truthful answer deserved one in return. Martin had asked, and Jon had  _ wanted  _ to answer. He was so tired of secrets, of keeping them, of having to find them. Martin wasn’t a secret. He was an open book, open and honest and kind, even to the man who had continued to admonish and criticise him. And, it was  _ easy  _ to talk to Martin. More than that, Martin  _ understood _ . He believed Jon, which was a luxury that Jon had long since forgotten, having only been provided by Tim and Sasha previously. The moonlight had cast strange shadows, and for a moment they were not employer and employee but something that was almost friends. 

It’s not that Jon had not allowed himself to see that Martin was a handsome man. It was simply that he did not notice things like that. He did not look at people, at men and admire how their hair curled gently away from their face, or how well-set and kind their eyes were, or how their hands were rough in the same beautiful way as Sasha’s were. And yet, the light of the moon seemed to change this, as if something as simple as the layer of night was enough to change the way that he looked at Martin in the light of day. Even Martin’s admission that he had seen Peter Lukas, and before that, had worked for him, did not change how Jon saw him in the moonlight. If anything, the same swell of protection surged in his chest, the same as when Jonah implicitly threatened either Tim or Sasha, and Jon didn’t know whether it was simply a threat to their jobs or to their lives. 

All he could think, as he held Martin’s hand in the forest, leading them back to the house, was that he would not let Jonah tarnish him too. Would not let Jonah hurt him, use him, as Jonah had hurt and used him.

Now, they worked together, as if the night before had not happened, as if Jon had not admitted that he was a murderer by negligence. Martin had smiled, brought him tea as usual, and got to work without comment. The gentle scratching of his pen on paper, the quiet sips as he drank his tea, and the occasional sigh was far from the annoyance that it once had been. When had it become so familiar, so calming? When had Martin’s small habits and idiosyncrasies become a comfort to Jon?

When did trust come so easily?

Martin had brought him tea again, and Jon had not missed the way in which the walk up the stairs winded Martin. Perhaps he should consider moving his work downstairs. It’s not like he left that often but with Martin coming up and down more often than Sasha used to… well, he should probably think about it. If it wasn’t for Jonah, he would have moved down to the library years ago, on account of his leg acting up on rainy days. He should probably exercise it. He didn't do it enough, Sasha was always telling him so. And Martin had been bringing him so much tea. 

So when Martin made a move to stand, mumbling something about a book, Jon stood too. Martin looked to him in surprise. 

“I’m headed downstairs,” Jon said, a sentence that was as surprising to him as it was to Martin, “Did you need something while I’m down there?”

Martin blinked, “I was… There’s a book I need to cross reference something in this statement with. Something about a field hospital? It's in my room, I was making notes on it yesterday.”

Jon nodded, “I know the one. Is it Mr Russo’s statement?”

“I’m comparing your copy with the one written about in the statement. The differences are, um, significant.” 

“Right, yes, of course,” Jon cleared his throat, “I’ll get it for you. Do you need your notes as well?” 

“That, uh, that would be good,” Martin smiled, careful, like he can’t quite believe Jon is doing this, which of course, only makes Jon feel worse about his past actions, “Thank you, Jon.”

Jon nodded, and headed down. He hadn’t gone into the guest room since before Gertrude’s death, and to be perfectly honest, he hadn’t realised that Martin would be in there until Tim had told him, complaining about having to pull Martin’s bags up there while he offloaded a delivery to Jon. It was a nice enough room, though it wasn’t exactly Jon who had decorated it. It was still sparse, and beyond the books and the papers on the small desk, there was no indication that anyone actually lived here. It wasn’t like Tim’s room, covered in photographs of far off places and postcards from friends. It wasn’t like Sasha’s room, bright and sunny at the top of the house, filled with plants and light. It was bare, pale blue walls and a neatly made bed. It looked lonely. 

The book. He was here for the book. Even if there was a part of him that wanted to search, to investigate, to figure out exactly why Martin Blackwood was the way he was, he was here for the book. He needed to trust him. If he’d learned anything from the last few years, he needed to trust the people around him. Tim and Sasha had both talked to him enough about it, both before and after the last two assistants. 

Then again, he knew he trusted them, but he still kept them at arm's length. For their safety. If he actually cared about Martin’s safety, he would do the same. 

The book was on the desk, surrounded by papers filled with Martin’s careful handwriting. They couldn’t all be notes on Tales from a Field Hospital; there wasn’t that much content in either the book or the statement. Tucking the book under one arm, Jon began to rifle through the papers, scanning them quickly to find any that might be relevant. There were a few pages here and there, and then. 

And then. It was a bit more chicken scratch than the last pages, less neat notes and more prose, sentences scratched out and rewritten and scratched out again. 

But a few sentences stood out. 

“ _ I know you think that what I did was wrong, but it was the right thing. I’ll get the money to you somehow, I promise. I’ve found a way to make up for it. A new job. I know you taught me not to lie, but sometimes it’s necessary.” _

_ “Sasha talked to me about the past assistants today. I felt sick when she did. I’m betraying them already. If the others find out I’m lying, it’ll all be over. Just when they’re starting to trust me, and they’ve been so kind. But, I’ll do what I have to do, I swear.”  _

There were tear marks at the end of the paper. It wasn’t signed but Jon knew that handwriting well enough now. 

Martin.  _ If the others find out I’m lying.  _ Martin, defending him from Jonah. Martin, sitting here, writing a letter in which he was  _ betraying them already.  _ Martin, who used to work for Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas, who arrived with Jonah on his arm. 

Jon felt sick, the paper crumpled in his hand. Was all of this a lie, a trick? Had Martin been Jonah’s all this time? The lake, the library; was every meeting, every exchange of trust between them a lie? What was Martin doing, in his office, alone, right now while Jon was gone? Taking notes, taking statements, learning every little thing about Jon to report back to Jonah?

How could he have been so  _ stupid _ ?

Of course Jonah wouldn’t let him say no that easily. Of course he would know that Jon would choose the other option; and so he made sure that there was no other option to take. 

Jon took the stairs slowly, steadying himself on the stairs a few times. He had to force himself to go slow, to try and let his thoughts steady themselves before they exploded out of him in a force of hurt and betrayal. He had told his story to Martin, and poured out his heart. Had been concerned for him, worried for the consequences that Jonah might inflict on him. All this time, every interaction Martin had with Jonah had just been an act. A performance, exclusively for Jon’s benefit, to trust him. To win him over, to get him to let his guard down, just in time for Jonah to strike. 

With hands that were still from tremendous effort, Jon opened the door.

Martin stood, away from his desk, pulling down another box of statements as Jon entered. He smiled at Jon, before seeing Jon’s expression and frowning. He seemed genuinely concerned, but Jon knew now that it was a lie. It had to be. All of it was a lie. 

“Sit down.” Jon said, and his voice did not shake. 

“Jon, wha-”

“I said, sit down, Martin.”

Martin sat. He looked up at Jon, and there was worry in his eyes.  _ Good _ . Jon thought, vicious.  _ You should be worried.  _

“Jon…” Martin said, and oh god, it wasn’t worry for himself. He was worried about Jon. No, he was only pretending to be. He had to be pretending, “Jon, are you alright? You look pale. Do I need to get Sasha or Tim?”

“Leave them out of this,” Jon said, fighting hard to keep his voice at a normal volume. If he shouted, the others might hear. They might investigate. They could get  _ hurt _ . Jon couldn’t underestimate what anyone employed by Jonah was capable of.

“O-okay?” Martin said, “Jon, what’s going on? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“How can I be okay, Martin,” Jon said, venomously, “when you keep lying to me!”

Martin paled as Jon raised his voice, “About what?!”

“This,” Jon replied, holding out the crumpled paper, and Martin blanched. 

“Where did you get that?”

“It was on your desk, Martin, in your bedroom, under your notes; Your handwriting. “ _ If the others find out I’ve been lying _ ” – lying about  _ what _ , Martin?

“Look, just forget about it, okay? Please.” Martin’s voice, pleading, open; a lie, a trick. It had to be. 

“I  _ can’t  _ forget it. Not when every last assistant I’ve had had ulterior motives. Not when any one of them might be reporting directly to Jonah. Not when the assistant I was starting to  _ trust,  _ used to work for Peter goddamn Lukas!”

“You said you weren’t angry about that!” Martin said, his voice rising, “Jon, just– ”

Jon slammed his hand, his fist with the letter still crumpled within down hard on the desk, enough to send Martin’s neatly organised pens flying and rolling off the table. Martin himself jumped, flinching back from Jon’s rage in a way that almost made Jon want to stop. 

_ This was Martin _ , part of him wanted to say,  _ Martin who protected you. It’s just Martin.  _

The contents of the letter swam in front of his eyes again, and he doubled down. 

“ _ Martin _ !”

“O-okay, okay!” Martin stammered, hands up and leaning back, “Okay. Just… just… promise you won’t… fire me.”

Jon huffed contemptuously, “ _ Sure. _ ”

“I-I…” Martin took a deep breath, “I lied about my job qualifications. When I saw the ad, I lied in the letter I sent to Sasha. I’ve… I’ve been lying in every job I’ve had since I was 17.”

“...what?” Jon said, his voice dropping dangerously low. 

“I don’t have a degree in parapsychology. I didn’t even finish school! Right before my final exams, my mother, she… she got sick, and I had to drop out of school to support her. Eventually I started lying on my applications, just writing in anything that might get me a job. That's how Peter found me; he figured out I was lying and used that to his advantage to try and keep me on. But I left and I tried to find a job with what I had, but nowhere was hiring. Then I saw this ad, and somehow my lie about parapsychology got me a job here. But most of my employment details are made up. I’m only 29.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment. Martin bit his lip, before he stood, so he was now face to face with Jon, even with a desk between them. 

“I didn’t know that you had been lied to before. I wanted to tell you, when I found out how the other assistants had been working for Jonah, but I… I didn’t know how. And I need this job. I need it so badly, Jon, I- I, it’s for my mother, and her care, and then everyone here was so  _ kind _ , and it hurt but I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even you,” Martin sighed, “I know that my word doesn’t mean anything, but I swear to you I’m telling the truth.”

He believed him. Against all odds, he believed Martin. He looked at Martin and saw nothing but earnestness and guilt. He should be doubting him, but, no. No more. No more paranoia. If Jonah was really going to try and get him, then he needed people he could trust. More than just Tim and Sasha. Because, after all of this, after everything Jonah had done, maybe he couldn’t trust naturally anymore. So. 

Jon made a decision. He was going to trust Martin. He was going to trust Martin, because Martin had no reason to stand up to Jonah and he did it anyway. Martin had no reason to trust Jon, but he had listened, and understood him anyway.

Jon couldn’t help himself, could stop the small smile spreading across his face. The sense of relief that flowed through him in that one moment was immense; like a weight lifted from his shoulders, his mind. 

“Right, I–I… uh… I believe you,” He said, laughing with a quiet breath, “I believe you, Martin. I’m sorry. I believe you.”

“You… you don’t mind?” Martin asked, hesitantly.

“Mind?” Jon laughed quietly, “Martin, I thought you were working for  _ Jonah _ . I’m actually rather relieved.” 

“So, you’re… you’re not going to fire me?”

“No. No, Martin. Though, if you needed money, you came to the wrong place.”

Martin considered for a moment, before looking back up at Jon, “Peter, I mean, Lukas, he said… he said to me you were going to run out of money. And there was the funding party…”

Jon sighed, “Gertrude spared no expense when it came to her investigations. By the time I got home, there wasn’t much left. That’s when Jonah stepped in. Offered his  _ help _ for more… esoteric statements. The one’s that Gertrude kept hidden away.”

Jon bent down, reaching under the desk and opening the small safe that Gertrude had installed  before her death. 

“Her version of a filing cabinet,” Jon said, “Filled with all of the statements that she couldn’t quite figure out. I… I think this is what Gertrude wanted, what Jonah  _ still  _ wants. So I keep it hidden, and safe until, I… until I figure it all out. Which is what I hoped you would be able to help me do.”

“Jon, you know I’m not-”

“You're better than me alone. All of this, it’s like a… a thousand piece puzzle with half of them missing.” Jon said, “The others… they don’t know how much of this I still haven’t figured out. And I need to figure this out. It’s what Gertrude wanted and Jonah wants it so badly… it must be important. Right?”

He looked up to Martin, almost imploringly, still kneeling on the floor. “The others can’t know. They can’t know that I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“They’re your friends, Jon,” Martin said, now kneeling down next to him, “We just want to help. They don’t want to see you throw yourself into danger, or into a brick wall over and over again. It doesn’t matter what Gertrude wants. Or what Jonah wants. It’s about what  _ you  _ want, Jon.”

“I want,” Jon emphasised, “To  _ know _ . I just want to know what all of this means.”

“But will that make you happy? If we work this out, if we chase every lead in every statement, will that make you happy?” Martin asked. 

Jon didn’t answer. He didn’t know how. 

“We’re your friends, Jon,” Martin repeated, “I- _ I’m _ your friend. We’ll be here for as long as you need us here. I’ll be here for as long as I can be, to help, but Jon…. I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe, and to… to live for yourself. Not for Gertrude, not for Jonah, for  _ you _ .”

Jon shook his head. “I don't know what would make me happy. God, Martin, I’ve… I’ve been doing this for years. I’m so tired. I just want everyone to be safe. Tim, Sasha,” He looked to Martin, a heat in his cheeks that wasn’t there before, “You. And I don’t mind if I have to work myself into the ground to do it.”

“I mind!” Martin said, “”Tim minds, Sasha minds! Look, Jon,” Martin put a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder, “You don’t know what will make you happy. But this work, this worry about finance and living up to Gertrude’s legacy, it doesn’t make you happy. It’s not healthy.” Martin paused then, taking a breath “You can just… leave it all behind. The house, the work, all of it.”

Jon blinked. Leave it all behind? When it was the reason that Tim and Sasha stayed, the reason Martin was even here? No. He couldn't leave, not without losing all of them too. Martin held on tight to Jon’s shoulder, but it wasn’t painful. It was steady, reassuring. He needed them. He couldn’t just leave them, not to Jonah’s wrath when he found out Jon was gone.

“Jon, if you can’t figure out what makes you happy, then, try to figure out what will make  _ us,  _ your friends _ ,  _ happy. Alright? Just… promise me you’ll think about it?”

Jon nodded, even as his head felt like it was spinning, as his mind tried to draw up plans upon plans, trying to figure out what would keep them all happy. “I’ll… I’ll think about it. I - Thank you, Martin. For putting up with me.”

“Believe me, Jon, I’ve put up with a lot worse,” Martin said, before doing something completely unexpected. He hugged Jon, wrapping him up in warm, solid arms, and even though the breath was almost knocked entirely out of his chest, it was the best damn hug he’d ever had. He breathed in, taking in everything that was just so  _ Martin _ , black tea and dusty books and ink stains. He knew then, that no matter what, he didn’t want Martin to ever leave. That Martin made him feel safe in a world where Jonah Magnus existed. It made him feel like Jonah wasn’t even there. 

He didn’t want them to leave. If they wanted to, of course, he would let them, but… He wanted friends. He  _ had  _ friends. And friends kept each other safe. 

Jon knew what he had to do. 


	6. in which a confession is heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jon makes a fateful decision, Martin tenders his resignation, and Georgie gets lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit! Halfway though! As I said before, though, I am rapidly approaching my backlog limit (and chapter 9 has been giving me some real trouble!) As such, I'm gonna take a week's break (I'm taking a small holiday with my gf (Beautiful, amazing, without whom this work wouldn't exist) before I start a full-time job!) to give me some time to rest, recharge, and hopefully work out my writers block and get this thing finished. 
> 
> Seriously though, all of your comments, kudos and hits mean so much to me. Knowing that there are people out there that want this story, and want to see it through to the end really drives me forward to finish this damn thing. Love to you all, and thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> Now, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ;)

_**2019** _

Georgie had her camera out for the entirety of her trip through the forest which of course meant that nothing at all happened. She reached the lake with no deviations, no sudden bursts of fog or figures slipping into the shadows of trees; though the feeling of being watched that permeated throughout the house did not leave her. It only lessened, slightly, to the point of being bearable, when she reached the lake. 

It was a lovely day. Without fog, without the ghosts of the past, the lake was peaceful. Serene, even. She could imagine walking here with the Admiral; with Melanie, perhaps. Maybe after all the ghosts were gone, and they had a chance to speak without the ceaseless wacher always with them. 

As she set up the equipment, Melanie’s equipment, she hoped that the other woman was alright. The events of last night hadn’t scared Georgie, nothing could do that anymore, but she was concerned. Melanie might put on a brave face, but there was always something behind that. Last night had shaken her, Georgie could tell, but she was still here. The thought alone made Georgie warm in a way she hadn’t felt since… Well, for a long time. 

Idly, she wondered if Melanie would want to work together after this. 

_ No _ , she told herself firmly.  _ It’s just been you and the Admiral for a long time, and that’s all this is. She’s been kind to you, and stayed when she didn’t have to, and that’s all. You were supposed to be taking a break from all of this!  _

It was a break that had turned into her moving into a haunted house, but still. And, the other part of her brain supplied, it was a break that had allowed her to meet Melanie. So it couldn’t be all bad, right?

Georgie wasn’t as familiar with cameras as she was with microphones, WtG being a podcast afterall, but she still set up the cameras in a short amount of time, before turning her attention to the more paranormal equipment. The spirit box and the EVP were what she was most familiar with, so she got them out and ready to go. 

In particular, this was about communication. About talking with the ghost - with Martin. The supposed murderer, though Georgie had her suspicions about that. Not just because of what she had seen and heard the day before in the woods. Like Melanie had said; it all seemed far too neat. Murders, especially murders of passion, were rarely ever neat. 

Dead men may tell no tales, but Georgie sure had a lot of questions for this ghost. Even with her unwillingness to actively summon anything, she compromised with simple communication; nothing that would allow them to actually manifest. 

Double-checking that the camera was recording, Georgie sat down on a large rock by the lake edge and turned on the EVP. 

“Okay… I’m going to be attempting to communicate with the spirit of Martin Blackwood. The stories say that he was drowned here and after my... experience, yesterday, I’m inclined to agree. So, before I turn on the spirit box, I’m reaching out to Martin Blackwood. Martin, my name is Georgie and I want to hear your story, okay? I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to know what happened to you.”

She hated turning on the spirit box, the burst of static always hurting her ears whenever she turned it on. Worse than that, it always reminded her of her last on location episode which -

Well, it was one of the reasons she had come out here. 

She had never really understood the appeal of white noise either; as the static settled into rotations through the radio waves, she heard snatces of voices, a second of violins (The Archers, most likely). Nothing definitive. But, it never hurt to try. She cleared her throat again, and tried to talk over the static. 

“I am trying to talk to the spirit of Martin Blackwood, or whoever the spirit was that I heard before. The device in front of me can help you answer my questions, so to start, can you tell me your name?”

Behind her, the EMF flashed to red, but Georgie didn’t see. “My name is Georgie, can you say my name back to me if you don’t remember your own name?”

The static crackled, jumped, “ _ -tin, Ge- Where am-” _

Georgie’s pulse quickened. “That was definitely something there,” She said, half to herself and half for the benefit of the camera, willing herself to stay calm while recording. 

“Can you say that again? Martin?”

“ _ My -”  _ Static gagged the speakers, muffling the sound, _ “Mar-” _

Georgie held her breath, biting her tongue; she didn’t want to speak over the spirit, if there was one there. 

“ _ Mar _ \-  _ tin, _ ” said the box, and it sounded cobbled together; a higher voice at the start, and a lower tone accompanied by a snatch of an ad jingle, and  _ holy fucking shit _ . 

See, there had been a lot of places where Georgie was relatively certain that they were haunted. A couple of direct encounters; enough for her to believe. But there had only been one other time where Georgie knew for a fact she was speaking directly with a ghost, rather than being simply haunted by one. 

“Well, I hope that was picked up on the camera,” She said, for lack of anything else. “Martin, I hear you. Can you answer a few more questions for me?”

“ _ Y- es” _

Georgie took a deep breath, “What do you see right now?”

“ _ Blue. Dark.”  _ A pause, then a DJ’s voice she vaguely recognised said, “ _ you _ ,” and Georgie shivered.

“The lake? Do you see the lake? Is that where you died?”

The static rose for a moment, almost hurting her ears before it settled once again, and more words were plucked from other’s mouths and used. 

“ _ Yes. Hu - rts. _ ”

Georgie couldn’t help the wince, and had to steel herself for her next question, “Where does it hurt, Martin? How did you die?”

“ _ Water _ .  _ Chest.. _ **BZZT** _.. burning _ ,” The static crackled, tinged with sorrow, “ _ Cou - don't breathe. - ete -” _ The rest of the sentence was lost under a rise of static. 

“You… you were drowned?”

“ **_YES,_ ** ” Georgie almost had to clap her hands over her ears, the EMF behind her now glowing bright red. 

“It’s alright, it’s okay,” Georgie soothed. The ghost, Martin, seemed to be benevolent, but she didn’t want him to get any louder, more upset. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but it was clear that reminding him of his death, of what happened to him, only seemed to make things worse. She tried to compartmentalise what she had already learned; first, the spirit was undeniably that of Martin Blackwood. Second, he had died here, drowned, and Georgie desperately wanted to ask him if it had been an accident or design, but she also didn’t want to burst her eardrums from his response. Next time then. She could return with Melanie, experimenting with who he would appear too. But right now, there was still a piece of the puzzle that she was entirely oblivious too; the story she had been told didn’t exactly fit right.

“Just one more question, alright, Martin? I know this must be tiring for you.”

Georgie took a deep breath, and hoped she wasn’t making a mistake, “Martin… why did you kill Jonathan Sims?”

The spirit box  _ screamed.  _ The EMF, already bright red, shattered as the lightbulb exploded, and Georgie jumped, diving off the rock and slamming her hands over her ears as the static roared with anger and grief. 

As she lay there, cheek laid against the rough pebbles of the lakeside, she heard rather than saw the spirit box finally explode, the rush of power through it too much to contain. Plastic parts showered over her, and finally, there was silence. 

Georgie looked up, and had just enough time to feel her heart sink at the sudden appearance of the thick fog that now entirely surrounded her. Then Georgie didn’t think much of anything, anymore. 

* * *

_**1949** _

“What the  _ hell _ have you done?!” Martin slammed open the attic door, not caring for how the wood shook and the candles on the floor wavered. Jon looked up in surprise from where he was sorting statements. 

“I thought that was rather obvious, Martin.” Jon said, and as he turned, Martin saw the glint of the ring on his finger. It made him feel sick to his stomach. 

“He’s a terrible person!”

“I am well aware, Martin.” Jon’s voice was infuriatingly calm for the subject matter, and he refused to look Martin in the eye. Like a man who knows he is destined for the gallows, and who has accepted his fate. 

“Then why did you agree to marry him?! You don’t love him -”

“Of course I don’t,” Jon snapped, “It’s not a proper marriage. It’s just a business deal.”

“Generally, a business deal doesn’t involve pledging  _ ‘until death do us part’ _ ” Martin said, stepping closer to Jon, fighting to keep his breath steady, “What kind of deal is worth  _ this _ ?”

Jon’s jaw clenched, and he kept not looking at Martin, “The kind that is entirely my business and none of yours.”

“Don’t you dare,” Martin replied, low and furious, “Don’t you dare say that. Not to me. Not to Tim, not to Sasha, not to your  _ friends.  _ Did you even listen to a thing I said that day? _ ” _

“I did!” Jon insisted, “You said to think about what you, and the others would want, and I  _ did _ .”

“And what in God’s name made you think that agreeing to marry a man who has done nothing but hurt you would make your friends happy?!” Martin shouted

“Because it means you can stay!” Jon shouted back, finally turning to face Martin, though he still did not meet his eyes. “It’s a business deal; I get the money to keep my research going, keep the house running, and Jonah-”

“Jonah gets you,” Martin said, and Jon scowled. 

“Jonah gets the house,” Jon corrected. 

“See,” Martin said, “That’s what you don’t get. It might have started about the house, but it’s as much about owning you as it is about owning the house.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!”

“As long as I’ve still got y- my research, I can take whatever he throws at me. I’ve done it this far.” Jon said, “Martin, listen. If I can keep my research going, you still have a job. You told me about your mother; I’ve just ensured that you can take care of her for years to come.” 

“Don’t,” Martin said, “Don’t you dare say you did this because of me.”

“Because of you?” Jon said, “I did this for you, Martin. For you, and Tim, and Sasha, because then you can  _ stay _ .”

Martin shook his head, “No, Jon. That’s where you’re wrong. The day you marry Jonah will be the day I leave your service.”

Jon, finally, looked at Martin. He felt a pang of guilt at the untamed horror in his eyes, but Jon seemed to quickly reel in his emotions until he saw only shock in Jon’s eyes. 

“What?  _ Why? _ ”

Martin paused before speaking, “Because watching you be married to a monster would kill me. Because I would have to watch, everyday, as Jonah tore away at you, just like he has for years, only this time, there would be no escape. I wouldn’t be able to keep him away. I would rather leave here, leave  _ you _ , than watch the man I lo-” Martin choked, closing his eyes and looking away from Jon then, taking another deep breath before speaking again, “I would rather leave, than watch you languish in a loveless marriage. Before I have to watch you fade away with every day you’re trapped here with him. I would take the ache of being apart rather than the pain of watching Jonah act like he owns you. And I know the others will do the same.” 

“Martin,” Jon said, quiet and horrified, and Martin opened his eyes once more, looked to Jon who appeared to be having several horrified revelations in the span of seconds, “Martin, I… I thought this was what you would want. Not Jonah, clearly, but… The job, the  _ money _ … I thought you would want to stay.”

“I do want to stay,” Martin said, “But I won’t watch you become a ghost in this house. I refuse to. No money is worth that.”

“Gertrude’s research will survive if I do this.” Jon said, the reasoning hollow in his own mouth, grasping for straws of his own certainty which had seemed so foolproof previously. 

“Lying to me is one thing, Jon, but god, don’t lie to yourself. Not about this. What about  _ you _ , Jon?” Martin retorted, “Do you want to survive?”

“I don’t just want to survive!” Jon said, the words ripped out of him, honest in their swiftness, before his shoulders slump, “Just surviving got me here.”

“Then what do you  _ want _ , Jon?”

“You know what I wanted.” Jon said, but Martin shook his head.

“I need to hear it, Jon. You need to hear yourself say it, because this isn’t about my mother, is it?”

“I want to  _ live _ ,” Jon said, after a long pause. “I want you to stay, and I-I want us to live, Martin. What you said, about leaving this house behind, I wanted… But I don’t know who I am if not Gertrude’s archivist, I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. I-I need you,” Jon pressed a hand to his face, covering his mouth as if to stop the horrible noises of realisation that sounded unbidden. “ _ I need you _ . I can’t do this alone but he… He won’t let me go, not now, not ever. What have I done? What have I  _ done?” _

Jon crumpled, a heavy hand on the desk only about holding him up, and Martin rushed forward. It was easy, to pull Jon into his arms, as they both sank to the floor.

“It’s alright,” Martin soothed, rubbing Jon’s back with a gentle hand as the other man shuddered with silent tears, even though nothing about this situation was alright. “It’s alright. We’ll find a way out of this.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” Jon said, his voice surprisingly even though it was barely more than a whisper. “It’s all signed and… and official, he won’t let me just  _ leave _ .”

“We’ll find a way,” Martin insisted, “I promise. Tim, Sasha… Me. We’re with you. We won’t let him marry you. We won’t let him get away with this.”

“What if he already has?” Jon asked, his face pressed into Martin’s shoulder. 

“The moment you think like that, he already has. There’s always a way out.”

“If you say so, Martin,” Jon aquiesened, pulling away slightly but not entirely out of Martin’s arms, “What you said before… What you almost said, about me being, uh, the man you, I, uh, I-”

“You can forget about that, Jon.” Martin said quickly, “You don’t want to hear that whole - I let the moment carry me away, it’s not important, right now, we have to focus on the situation at hand.”

“What if… What if I don’t want to forget it?” Jon said, quietly, “What if I want to hear the whole sentence?”

“Jon…” Martin said, “It’ll change everything.” He could go on, but that is all that he really can say, all that he needs to say.

“Everything has already changed,” Jon replied. “I think, after all that I’ve faced today, I’m ready to face this.”

Martin struggled to find the words, “Jon, it’s not - Just because I-I, doesn’t mean that you. it’s still so  _ new, _ what if you’re wrong, or I’m wrong, and, and you’re my  _ boss _ , I don’t-”

“Martin,” Jon said, and when he tilts his head towards Martin, Martin doesn’t protest when their lips meet because he is so overcome in the feeling of  _ kissing Jon _ . He tasted dust and paper, wax and ink, all those things that were undoubtedly Jon, this moment feels like every moment where he fell a little more in love, and he cannot deny it any longer, can’t deny his very heart, his very soul. He loves this man, this wonderful, stupid man, this man who would marry a monster because he thought it would make Martin stay, even though all he had to do was ask him to stay. 

When they part, Jon looked to him with wide eyes, “Was that…? Was I wrong?”

Martin’s only response is to kiss him again. A little more fire this time, coiling in his gut and pulling his hands up to pull Jon closer, Jon responding in kind with desperate hands at Martin’s waist, hips; not demanding, just wanting to pull Martin even closer. As if he could forget all that had happened just with Martin’s presence.

When they finally parted once more, Martin cupped Jon’s face with his hands, gentle and kind and  _ safe _ . 

“I won’t let him hurt you. Never.”

Jon swallowed, “Martin, I…”

His words seem to fail him, and Martin pressed their foreheads together. 

“I know, Jon,” He said, suddenly exhausted, but still filled with that same warmth that he felt at the lake, the same warmth that he knows is Jon, in his heart, his mind, his soul, “I know."

* * *

Unbeknownst to either of the two men, as they embraced at the bow of the window, a man stood watching them from the edge of the wood. His mouth was set in a thin line; one of the silhouettes was aggravatingly familiar to him, and what he saw does not impress him. With a huff of annoyance, Peter Lukas turned, and went to pass on this latest news.

* * *

_**2019** _

It was cold. Everywhere the fog touched was cold, and where it gently brushed her exposed skin, she could feel goosebumps rising. She was certain it hadn’t been cold before. She would have brought a coat with her, if it had been cold, especially when she was looking for… for…

No, she had always been alone. Hadn’t she? She had come out to the woods, alone, her bag heavy because she had no one to share the load. 

It hurt, the realisation that she was alone. She wrapped her fog covered arms around herself, and tried to imagine they were another’s. A feeling she should be familiar with; shouldn’t she? Or had she always pretended there was another, always been so utterly alone in her delusions that someone would actually want her? Even her cat only liked her because she fed him. 

What colour was he? She remembered fur, her hands running through his fur, and calling him to her but… she could no longer remember his name, or the colour of his eyes, or his fur. Was she even sure she had a cat at all?

The fog was as thick as water, and trying to take a step felt more like wading through an ocean, nagging inconsistencies lapping at her knees in gentle, repetitive waves. All the while, the break of water spoke to her, beckoning like a siren song, pulling out ugly truths and leaving them floating on the surface. She was alone. She was unwanted. Everything she once had was gone, even though she could no longer remember exactly what she had lost. 

She tried to take a step forward, and fell to her knees instead, her pace broken by something in her way. Though she was close to the ground, she still had to bend lower to see what exactly she had tripped on. 

A camera? Why was there a camera in the woods? She reached for it, and all of a sudden, like angry hornets, memories assaulted her, incessant and demanding her attention; who she was, why she was here, how she had gotten here, and it was all she could do for a moment just to sit and try and sort through it. It threatened to sweep her away, this flood of memories, and like a flood, she grabbed a hold of the solidest memories and held on fast. 

With some fumbling, she found the ‘record’ button, and pressed it. Her own face stared back at her in the side view screen, and she hated how lost she looked. 

“My name is Georgie Barker,” Alright, good start. The sllyballes felt familiar on her tongue. “My name is Georgie Barker and… and I’m a ghost hunter.” That was why she was here, out in the woods, looking for ghosts. The last part of her declaration is the hardest; “And I… I am not here alone. I am not alone. There’s someone with me, someone I need to find -”

Perhaps she only imagined it, but it felt as if there was a roar, a press, and if she had been standing in a calm ocean before, she had barely a moment to breathe before she was overwhelmed by the cascading waves of grief. Her struggles against the tide of memory were nothing in comparison to the tsunami of emotion that engulfed her then. It was pure loss; worse than the feeling of abandonment and isolation that she had battled before; this time, she knew that she had once had someone (What was their name?) and that they were gone, they would never come back, never find her in this riptide of feeling, and that, no matter how much her heart was ripped apart by it, they would never come back. They were gone, and it tore her apart, wave by wave. She knew this feeling all too intimately, and all the foundation of progress that she had painstakingly built shook under its weight.

The flood did not subside; it felt as if it never would. Under the flood, it was difficult for her to hold onto the memories that she had only just recovered, clutching onto them like driftwood in the sea, like soap in a bath. 

_ My name is Georgie Barker. I am a ghost hunter. I am not alone. My name is Georgie Barker. I hunt ghosts, and I don’t do it alone. My name is Georgie Barker, and I am stronger than this pain. I have been stronger. My name is Georgie Barker and this is  _ **_not_ ** _ my grief. _

She only realised that the words had left her mouth when she heard them reverberating around her, muffled in the fog and feeding back to her. She opened her mouth, the fog settling deep and heavy within her lungs.

“This is  _ not  _ my grief,” She said again, because even if her mist-muffled mind did not quite understand the sentence, she knew it was true. “I am  _ not  _ alone.”

The wind rustled trees that she couldn’t see, and the roar of water got louder;  _ you’re alone, you’re alone, he’s gone, he’s gone and he’s never coming back, you lost him, you lost him; _

“Stop it!” Pointless, frankly unimaginative on her part, and she hated how it was as much a plea as it was a command, “Stop it, I’m not alone! I have someone!”

_ Then where are they? Where is she now? _

She no longer knew whether that voice came from her environment or if it was the darkest corners of her own mind. Gently, the fog coiled its way into her thoughts, made its home among the pits and dark places that had always existed. It knew what to do.

Like a shot through the trees, a piercing scream rang out. For a second, it tugged on a fragment of her recent memories; a drowning in the woods and she could not interfere, trapped, an unwilling witness. 

Instead, it pulled on the stronger aspects of her memory, the parts that she had desperately clutched to herself in an attempt to remember. And the voice called her name.

**_“GEORGIE!”_ **

The name tumbled from her lips as if it had never left, and she started forward through the fog, pulled by a thread to her past which she could no longer ignore. The grief ebbed, drained away, as she ran further into the mist, camera still in her hand. 

“Alex! Alex, I’m coming!”

As she further stumbled through the fog, it clung to her, resting gently on the back of her neck. She was so relieved to hear that voice once more, a voice plucked from her memories, that she did not notice as the fog did as it had only wished to do all this time; smoothed down the rough edges of her pain, putting rounding the edges of the puzzle pieces of her life, an incomplete picture but one without the truth. A moment before, it was true, it hadn’t been her grief that threatened to tear her apart; but it had been familiar to her, marked with that experience, and that was what the fog was able to latch on to. She had lost someone but, obscuring it completely only caused her more distress. It didn’t want that; he didn’t want that. Instead, the mist did what it believed to be a kindness, it obscured all but the memories that it needed to lure her into its embrace. 

Georgie ran towards the sound of her friend’s voice, repeating her mantra over and over to herself;  _ I am Georgie Barker. I am a ghost hunter. I have to find Alex. _

“Georgie!” Alex cried again, her voice echoing in the space around Georgie. It almost sounded as if there were a thousand Alex’s, more voices under her own, but it must have only been the reverberation among the trees, “Georgie, help me!”

“I’m coming! Keep talking, tell me where you are!” Georgie responded, ignoring the nagging of deja vu, that this had all happened before, and soon the fog had obscured her doubts. 

“I’m here! Georgie, hurry!” For a split second, it sounded like there was a lower tone under her shout, an echo of something hidden, but any worry for that disappeared as the panicked and desperate voice of Alex registered. 

The panic pushed her forward even as the temperature dropped. The fog, which had previously only produced goosebumps became icy, threatening shivers and chattering teeth. The cold started to creep around her legs, ice cutting deep to the bone of her ankles, and slowly rising, up her thighs and over her knees. God, it seemed like the fog was freezing her slowly, even as she pushed ever forward towards her friend. 

It was like running in a nightmare; horribly, inexorably slow; knowing that you won't reach them in time, knowing that whatever was chasing you will catch up sooner rather than later. 

“Alex!” She called again, “Alex, where are you?”

There was only silence, and dread started to climb, along with the cold. 

“Alex?” She asked, when the cold reached past her waist, and she could no longer stop her teeth from chattering. Any words she spoke trembled with cold, and her hand, still clutching the camera, shook violently, “Alex, please! Please answer me...”

All at once, as the ice claimed her chest, she understood; the loss she had felt before, it was only a prelude to this. Knowing that she could have saved Alex, though from what, she was not sure. It was knowing that she had been so close, and yet her goal had been torn from her at the last moment. Alex was gone, and she would never be back. This was no stranger’s grief; it was her own, an old friend and companion come home at last, and all she had done to keep it at bay was for naught. It was a familiar pain, and now the fog had cleared, her foundation crumbled. Her knees buckled, as all she could remember were the frozen months after, where she had simply stayed in her bed, hollow, scooped out with grief, so burdened with it that she had been unable to feel anything at all. How when it hit, it came in waves of grief and guilt, the knowledge that she had failed her friend worse than the knowledge that she was gone. 

It was her fault. It was all her fault and as she sank beneath the waves of the lake, she knew that she was completely, and utterly alone. 

Sinking was easy. It was the easiest thing she had ever done, to sink. To open her mouth and let her lungs accept the gift that the water was giving her. That the fog was giving her; it knew loneliness, and knew this was a better fate than the eternity of loss. Her lungs burned, and the water would put out the fire. Everything would be still, and calm, and quiet. No pain, no fear, a gentle death. In her hand, the camera flickered, the picture flashing momentarily as the water poured into its circuits. It was the only light in the dark green of the water, and for a second it caught her attention away from the slowly fading sunlight above. Silently, she apologised to Melanie for breaking her camera, bubbles rising now from her mouth as her breath ran out. 

_ Melanie… _

There was a shape above her. It was dark, and it blocked out the light, but it was moving much too fast for Georgie’s oxygen-deprived brain to keep up with, particularly not when her thoughts were now far too focused on the woman who had come into her life so recently. When the realisation hit her, it did so too late. 

_ I’m not alone. I was right. I’m not alone, I never have been. Alex is gone but that doesn’t mean I’m lost too. _

She tried to kick upwards, but her legs were like lead. When had she walked into the lake? When had she made the conscious decision to do this? She didn’t want to die; she had the Admiral, and she still had mysteries to solve and she had  _ Melanie _ . She didn’t know if that truly meant anything yet, but god, she wanted it to mean something. Georgie wanted, and she kicked upwards again, this time pushing her hands up and outward, straining towards the light that was growing dimmer and dimmer with every passing second. 

It was hard to see, but she could have sworn that there was a hand mirroring hers, reaching down where she was reaching up. She had held that hand all night. So new to her, but already so familiar. 

_ You belong here,  _ the voice whispered plaintively, and this time it barely sounded like Alex, and Georgie wondered how she ever mistook it in the first place.  _ Even the fear is gentle here. You’ll be safe. You won’t be alone.  _ **_I_ ** _ won’t be alone.  _

_ I’m sorry for what happened to you,  _ Georgie thought,  _ but you’re wrong. I don’t belong here, I am  _ **_not_ ** _ alone.  _

_ You were once.  _ A hand, incorporeal and no more than a lake weed, wrapped around her ankle,  _ Please. I’m so lonely. Please. Help me.  _

_ I will,  _ Georgie made one final push towards the surface, where the hand stood out plainly, the body swimming down to catch her, powerful, desperate,  _ but  _ **_I’m_ ** _ not lonely anymore. _

Strong arms gripped her own, and pulled her up. The hand on her ankle melted away as if it was never there. The two girls broke the surface of the lake, gasping for air, Melanie holding Georgie above the water as Georgie slowly remembered how breathing worked. In her ear, Melanie was talking, barely words punctuated with sputtering as she pulled them both towards the shore, but Georgie could make them out all the same. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, hold on, it’s okay, it’s okay,”

It took several wet and soggy minutes for them to reach the bank of the lake, Melanie staggering slightly under Georgie’s weight as she helped her to sit on the damp pebbles. Now that the fog was gone, she was no longer icy cold. Her dip in the lake, however, still inspired shivers, even as Melanie wrapped her dry jacket, which had been abandoned on the side of the lake along with her bag, around her shoulders. She rubbed at Georgie’s shoulders, trying to warm her up, and didn’t seem to care for their physical closeness as she gently pushed Georgie’s soaked hair out of her eyes. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, and then winced, “What am I saying, of course you’re not alright -

“Melanie,” Georgie caught her hand, squeezed it tight, “I’m alright now. How did you know to find me?”

“I had an… incident at the house. I’m fine,” She added hurriedly, seeing Georgie’s expression, “I just needed to get out of there, and find you. I got to the lake, and you… you were already waist deep. I tried to call out to you, but it was like you couldn’t hear me. I turned to pull my jacket off to come in to get you, and when I turned around you had already gone under,” Melanie looked away then, though she did not pull away from Georgie’s grip on her hand, “You were calling out for someone else when I arrived. What happened?”

“I… I got lost.” Georgie said, “But you found me, Melanie. You found me. You  _ saved  _ me.”

Melanie shook her head, “I wouldn’t have been able to grab you if you hadn’t started to swim upwards.”

“That was still because of you,” Georgie replied, thinking of the camera and the moment of clarity that it had afforded her. Then she really did remember the camera, and her free hand flew to her mouth, “Oh Melanie, I’m so sorry! Your camera, it’s -”

“That doesn’t matter,” Melanie said firmly, “What matters is that you’re safe. You’re safe, and tonight we’re both getting the hell out of here.”

Her realisation came then, as if she had known it all along. Even when directly confronted with her past, Georgie shook her head, “I can’t, Melanie.”

Melanie looked at her in shock, “Georgie, you almost died!”

“I know,” Georgie said, levelly, “But, before that, I was able to talk to Martin - the ghost.”

“The ghost that almost killed you.” Melanie said, raising an incredulous eyebrow. 

“I don’t think he meant any harm. He’s lost, confused-”

Melanie threw her hands up in the air, “He made you walk into a lake and nearly drown yourself! I saw what happened in the fire, Georgie! Back at the house, that’s why I...” She swallowed, recomposing herself, “I saw what happened to Sims, what this asshole did to him!”

She gesticulated wildly, until Georgie caught her hands once more, and forced her to look down at her, “I believe you saw it, Melanie. But did you see who really set the fire?”

Melanie’s eyes narrowed, “No, I was just… it was like I was living it. The last moments of the fire, that is. Like someone wanted me to see it, feel it, just… to record it, you know? Why?”

Georgie squeezed her hands, “Because I know that Martin Blackwood didn’t kill Jonathan Sims. Because the spirit here, at the lake and in the woods, that’s Martin, and that spirit isn’t malevolent.”

“Yeah, right,” Melanie scoffed, but Georgie shook her head, 

“You saw the fire, I… I heard his death, his murder, and I felt his loss. I felt it because I know what it feels like, Melanie. He’s so lonely. He lost everything and then someone killed him, I  _ heard  _ it. He didn’t kill Jon,” She inhaled sharply as the realisation hit her, “He loved him.”

“In the fire,” Melanie said, suddenly, “Sims, he wrote something, put it in a safe in the attic. I found this paper in his study,” She pointed to the jacket pocket on Georgie’s right, and she pulled it out, “The hint to the code, most likely. But only one of the employees would be able to decipher it. It might prove something, give an idea as to who actually set the fire.”

“And who killed Martin,” Georgie added, as she slowly got to her feet.

“Georgie…” Melanie stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, “I…” She paused for a moment, then looked Georgie straight in the eyes, “You know, you don’t have to do this. I’ll phone the hospital and cancel our visit, book us train tickets back to London, you and the Admiral can even stay with me for as long as you need while you look for another place to live.”

“I know,” Georgie said, and even fearless, anxiety twisted in her chest. This was too much like last time, but... “But I told him I would help him. They’re both trapped here, Mel. You can leave, but, I’m not going until the job is done.”

“Then, I’m staying too. This,” She gestured up and down at their soaking clothes, “This is what happens when I let you go off and investigate alone. From now on, we stick together, okay?”

“I’m not complaining,” Georgie smiled, “You saved me.”

Melanie smiled, bending over in a mock bow, and holding out her hand, “My lady.”

Georgie laughed, and it was with ease that she took Melanie’s hand, even though it squelched a little with residue damp, “Come on, let’s go and change before we head to the hospital. I have a lot of questions for… what was their name again?”

“Sasha. Sasha James.”


	7. in which a plan is hatched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein Jon and Martin plan for a trip, Tim and Sasha feel very clever, and Georgie and Melanie make a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm still on holiday, but I was travelling last Wednesday, hence the chapter being posted this week instead of last week, but at least this holiday has given me a chance to finally finish chapter 9, so I hope you all look forward to that! (It's a meaty one, I promise)
> 
> But for now, I will simply say thank you, for everyone bearing with me while I took a short break, and for reading, commenting, and getting this fic to over 1000 hits (!!!) and I hope you enjoy the chapter (and sorry about last week's lore drop cliffhanger!)

**_1949_ **

For the first time in years, Magnus Hall was full of noise. Workman came in and out, hauling flowers, glasses, plates; everything that, at first glance, would appear to be for a very joyful occasion. All of the plates and glasses were lined with gold leaf, a decadence that looked out of place in the old house. The flowers too, were gold; sickly yellow and lime green hellebore, adorning the doors, staircase, walls, filling the entire place with the heavy scent of pollen. Once Jonah had got his foot in the door, it seemed that nothing they could do would stop him from trying to make his mark on everything he touched. Martin hated it. He hated the draping flowers that made him sneeze every time he stood too close; the plates that reminded him of the situation when he was just trying to eat. 

And most of all, he hated Jonah fucking Magnus. 

The house hadn’t been quiet since he visited, a day or so after the news had broken to the rest of the Magnus household. Martin didn’t want to particularly think about that visit. 

_ “I’m a businessman, Jonathan. I only buy what others are willing to sell. And you were oh so beautifully willing before, when you finally realised that I am your only hope.” _

Scratch that. Martin really didn’t want to think about that visit. Instead he was trying to find somewhere quiet, somewhere free of the workmen and deliverers who were all under Jonah’s employment. This display, it was as much to show off his power over them as much as it demonstrated his wealth. Despite attempts, none of them could stem the tide; Sasha had quickly found herself pushed out of her own kitchen and Tim had been regulated to simply a messenger boy, with the intruders often ignoring his knowledge and advice about the house itself. 

And Jon…

_ “Did you truly never realise? They would have court martialled you if it weren’t for me. I could as easily rescind my protection as easily as I gave it, Jonathan. Do you really think you could survive in a prison? You? Though at this point, I think they may even break out the firing squad again, and I would truly hate to see such a precious specimen wasted so.” _

_ “Don’t talk to him like that!” _

Even their nights were not safe. Jon paced for hours, muttering and planning, alternating between increasingly desperate plans and hopeless lamentations. Martin’s gentle coaxings were no longer as effective, and soon, he feared that even his presence would no longer be able to soothe Jon. Since that day, Jon had been spending every night in Martin’s room; the first place to fill with flowers and other signs of Jonah’s affection was Jon’s bedroom. It wouldn’t be long before the only place that would be safe would be Martin’s embrace, and even then Martin wasn’t sure how long that would last. He almost wished, in that moment, that this had been easy, that he had just been allowed to fall in love with Jon the way that normal people do. Maybe they would have worked at the same place, fell into step with each other with the same ease that other people breathe. 

Then again, maybe if that had been the case, maybe he wouldn’t have fallen for Jon at all. He loved Jon, was in love with him, he knew that even if he hadn't said it aloud, and that meant he loved all of him. Even the parts that kept him up until the early hours of the morning, or the parts of him that had sold himself just for the hope of keeping his friends with him. After all, if loving was easy, then no one would ever be a poet. 

_ Jonah’s lip had curled into a sneer as he looked down at Martin with utter disdain.  _

_ “And who are you to even be a part of this discussion between my fiance and I? I, who have protected him from the evils of this world? How would you ever do so? No money and no prospects?” _

Creeping upstairs, past the men who had invaded the sanctuary of home, Martin stole up the staircase to Sasha’s room. She lived, for all intents and purposes, at the highest part of the house, at the top of a spiralling staircase. As it was only connected to the house on the second floor, where a thin corridor led to Tim’s room, it had so far been untouched by Jonah’s gloating. Previously, Martin and Jon had met in the attic to try and discuss their situation, get a few moments where Martin could savour the gentle touches, the care with which he could  _ kiss  _ Jon, the moments in which he was reminded what all of this was for.

_ “I can make it so you will never find a job again. After all, who wants a piece of common dirt who has only ever slept his way into a job with no real skill? Who will take care of your poor mother then, or will she simply die of shame at having such a whore for a son?” _

He knocked quietly on Sasha’s door: two quick raps, followed by a pause before a further three. There was some amusement to this, that they were sneaking around like spies, or perhaps, unruly teenagers. Some amusement, then the realisation that they had less than a week before Jon was taken from them. There was no answer to his knock, but he could hear voices behind the wood; Jon’s voice, raised and louder than it should be, clearer than the others. 

Martin opened the door. Inside, Tim and Jon were face to face, Tim’s forehead furrowed in anger and Sasha was between them, a hand on both of their arms. 

“How dare you,” Tim was saying, jabbing his finger into Jon’s chest, “How dare you say that you would do something so -!”

“Tim!” Sasha said, grabbing his hand as she heard the door open, and Martin stopped short. The look on Jon’s face had stopped him more than anything else; like a guilty child with his hands caught in the biscuit tin, but full of a deeper sorrow than any child. He looked so tired, more tired than Martin had ever seen. There was despair etched into every line of his face, and Martin, more than anything in the world, wanted to brush that pain away. 

“What’s… going on?” Martin said slowly, closing the door behind him. 

“Nothing,” Jon said at the same time that Tim said, “Jon is being a pompous prick _. _ ”

“Tim!” Sasha admonished him again, “But you were being a bit of a prick, Jon.”

Jon opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but Sasha cut him off with a wave of her hand, “Never mind that now, either of you. Now that Martin’s here, we can tell him what we came up with.”

“And by we, I mean Sasha and I,” Tim interjected, “We aren’t considering one of your overly self-sacrificial plans today, Jon.”

Jon, if possible, looked even more guilty than he had before, eyes darting to Martin and even flinching away from him when Martin took his hand. Before Martin could pull away though, he grabbed Martin’s hand and held on tight. 

Martin took a deep breath, and looked to the others, “What have you got?”

Sasha turned to the bookshelf leaning against the far wall, pulling out a thick book with the title partially obscured. To them, Tim started to speak, “Now, I know that several, more straight forward plans have been shot down considering how thorough Jonah’s defence was - ”

“You can’t break off the engagement or Jon will be sent to jail and none of us will ever get a job again,” Martin said, starting to list them off on his fingers, “Simply leaving is out of the question, because of everyone he’s posted around the house and the vague threats he keeps sending Jon about ‘keeping him safe’, he’s almost certainly got plans in place to have people ready to arrest Jon and/or us if we try to leave the house before the wedding, we don’t have the time or resources to try and dig up dirt on Jonah, and any attempt to take this situation public would be a failure because of Jonah’s previous slander in the media. Sound about right?”

“Yes, thank you for the recap of our terrible situation, Martin.” Jon said, dryly, and Martin was glad to see that a little bit of light had come back into his eyes. Even with the situation as dire as it was, at least for now he could still make Jon smile. 

“If you’re done with flirting,” Sasha said, laying the book out on her small table, opening it to reveal it was a book of maps, “Back to our plan to get you the hell out of here.”

Martin felt the heat rise in his face, and was surprised to see a similar flush in Jon. Sasha pointed to the page she had marked out. It was a map of Scotland; close to the border, specifically Galloway. To be even more specific, as they bent over to see exactly where she was pointing. 

“Gretna Green?” Martin said, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That, my friends,” Tim said, grinning, “Is the key. Afterall, you can’t get married to Jonah if you’re already married to someone else.”

“Tim, you can’t seriously be suggesting-”

“We are,” Sasha replied instead, “I understand that it’s a bit… soon, but can either of you deny that it isn't an unwelcome thought?”

“Well…” Jon said, “It’s better than Magnus.”

“Gee, thanks Jon,” Martin said, holding a hand to his heart in mock horror.

“Martin, I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know, Jon,” Martin said, squeezing his hand. “But, guys? Really? This is your plan?”

“Oh come off it, Martin,” TIm said, “As if you weren’t doodling  _ Mr Sims-Blackwood _ all over your research notes.”

“Shut up, Tim!” Martin hissed, but a tug on his arm from Jon made him look away from the source of his annoyance. 

“I think Blackwood-Sims works better.” Jon said quietly. 

“Wait, Jon,” Martin turned to him properly, “Do you… really, honestly want to get married?”

“Well, no, seeing as that is the entire point of this endeavour,” Jon said, but he smiled slightly as he looked up to Martin, “I know it’s soon, but I… I knew I wanted to be a part of your life for the rest of mine before I knew that you even felt the same.”

“I…” Martin was at a loss for words, before a slow smile spread across his face, “Jon Sims, are you asking me to marry you?”

“I’m pretty sure you asked first, Martin,” Jon said. 

“And I’m pretty sure that we told you too in the first place,” Sasha said, rolling her eyes at the pair of them. 

“Alright, alright,” Jon said, placatingly, “Can I ask why Scotland? Why here specifically?”

“Because it has some very lenient and historical laws on elopement and on arrest warrants,” Sasha replied. “I’ve been doing some research, and got in touch with a friend of mine who owns a small house hidden away up there. You two can lay low there, get married, and with that delaying Jonah, you’ll have enough time to catch a ship to Belfast, and from there to… well, to wherever you’d like to go. You could even stay at the house in Scotland, no one lives there.”

“This is all very well and good, Sasha, but he’s watching the house, and most likely the station too,” Jon said, “They’d notice the carriage and the horses missing, and going on foot would mean that he’d find out we’re missing before we get anywhere. We know this, we can’t get out before the wedding.”

“Exactly,” Tim said, “The only time he’s going to allow you to leave is when you leave for the wedding.”

“And how is that going to help us?”

“Because it won’t be you that’s going to the wedding. It’ll be Martin.”

“Excuse me?” Martin said. 

“Tim’ll drive you in our carriage to the church. Jonah already sent us an itinerary,” Sasha said, holding up the gold-leaf paper in disgust, “He’ll be there, but presumably still have eyes on the house. Those eyes will see the carriage leave, and make Jonah believe that his plan is going well.”

“And what about Jon?”

Sasha smiled, “Do you remember Helen Richardson, Jon?”

“Yes; well, vaguely,” Jon said, “What about her?”

“This isn’t her usual fare, but she owes us a favour, and she’ll have dropped off a car on the other side of the lake for you, Jon. Trains are far too public for this, I’m afraid, but Jonah won’t know that you have this method of transport, and so won’t be prepared for it.”

“And when Magnus realises that his bride-to-be isn’t Jon?” Martin asked.

“He’s most likely going to head straight back to the house to look for Jon, or to the local station; at which point Jon will be well on his way. Which is where I come in,” Tim grinned, “Martin, you and I are going to meet Jon along his route, at which point you get in the car and the two of you ride off into the sunset!”

“You are making it sound far too easy,” Jon said.

“It is easy!” Tim said, “You’re just a pessimist.”

“But what about you two?” Jon said, “What happens when Jonah arrives and you’re the only ones left to face his anger?”

“We’ll be fine, Jon,” Sasha said, “Tim’s coming back for me, and I’ll have destroyed anything that Jonah can use against you, us, or even Gertrude by then. He can have this hollow, empty shell of a house, and rot in it.”

“Jon,” Martin said quietly, “If this goes right… He’ll never hurt you again.”

Sasha leaned over the table, imploring Jon with just a look, “Jon, please. Trust us.”

“We’ll get you out of here,” Tim said. “You’re our boss, and a prick -.”

“Tim!”

“But you’re our friend too. And friends  _ trust  _ each other.” Tim eyed Jon meaningfully. “Alright?”

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand as he looked up, finally, from the book of maps in front of him, to look between Tim and Sasha. 

“Alright,” He said, “Alright. Let’s do this.”

* * *

_**2019** _

Hilltop Hospital was a huge redbrick building, remains from a time where psychiatrists thought they could cure mental illness through severe architecture. There was evidence of recent attempts to make the lines of the building less harsh, soften them with ivy and climbing roses. Appropriate, Melanie thought. The illusion of softness, of comfort, a prison that no amount of pretty flowers could turn into a home. It reminded Melanie uncomfortably of the house.

Neither of them had let go of the other’s hand the long trek back through the forest, and the even longer walk from the house to the hospital, where they had changed out of their drenched clothes.

While they had each divulged their individual experiences to the other, Melanie couldn’t help but feel like Georgie was holding back. She made no mention of the name that she had been calling out for, offered no explanation, and Melanie, at least for now, did not ask for one. She didn’t want to think about what she was feeling at that moment, refused to give it a name because she would then have to acknowledge it.

Now, Melanie knew anger. She knew determination, and frustration and pride. What she felt could be classed as jealousy, but what sane, rational person gets jealous that theirs was not the name being called out by a person manipulated into drowning themselves? It wasn’t jealousy, it was closer to resentment, though Melanie wasn’t sure she could be resentful of a ghost. 

Maybe, it was simply a reminder that despite how close they had become over the last few days, large parts of Georgie’s life were still unknown to her. 

When this realisation fully formed, the tight bubble of… anger, and resentment and whatever the hell else was there, slowly deflated. It wasn’t as if she had been entirely forthcoming about everything in her life at the moment. Still, she filled Georgie in on as much as she could without making it sound like she was still scared completely shitless, and Georgie, to Melanie’s eternal relief did not push either. It was the least she could do to offer her the same courtesy. At least until all of this was over. 

She also didn’t argue again when Georgie insisted that the ghosts meant them no harm. Georgie seemed convinced that they weren’t malevolent, but Melanie wasn’t as sure. They might not be murderers, but Melanie knew that ghosts didn’t pop up because their death was peaceful. Trauma does things to people, and 70 years of being dead can’t have improved their mental state. 

Then again, 70 years of being trapped in this old building might be worse than being dead. They could remove the iron bars from the window, but they had just replaced them with security key cards and magnetically sealed doors and the illusion of freedom. Patients wandered the gardens nearby, but Melanie still took note of the cameras that watched their every move, and the security teams at the main entrance. Still, at least it wasn’t haunted. Probably. 

The waiting room for guests was bright, colourful, covered in photographs of fixed smiles and art projects, thank you cards. For the newer patients at this place, maybe those smiles weren’t fake. Maybe they really got better. For those who had been here a lot longer… that wasn’t so sure. 

“Miss King for Miss James?” Melanie asked at the desk, and the secretary nodded, and went to get some entrance forms for her to sign. Thankfully, the hospital had mostly brought her story of being a long lost niece. She reluctantly let go of Georgie’s hand to sign them, when she heard another voice. 

“Ah, Miss Barker!” 

Turning, she saw an older man, leaning heavily on his stick as he approached them both, black eyes shining. Melanie quickly caught Georgie’s eye, confirming that, yes, this was the man she had met at the lake. 

“A strange place for us to cross paths, but I am glad we did - How was your first night in the old house?”

An innocuous question, but Melanie still felt uneasy. Instinct told her that he knew a lot more about the house than he was letting on. 

“Good, thank you,” Georgie said in response, “The bedrooms are still unusable for the moment, but we slept, regardless.”

“No disturbances?” He asked, masking what Melanie is sure is a serious question with a joking tone of voice. 

“None at all,” Melanie said, stepping back from the desk and smiling as she interlinked Georgie’s arm with her own. 

“Oh, how rude of me,” he said, and offered her a hand to shake, “You did say you had a friend staying with you. What is your name, my dear?”

Melanie tried not to bristle at the endearment, taking his hand. Even then, she couldn’t help but shiver; his hand was like ice. “Melanie. I’m sorry, I don’t think Georgie caught your name before?”

Pulling back before he could answer, she reached a hand into her pocket. While she had left her jacket and bag on the side of the lake before she jumped in after Georgie, she had her phone in her back pocket. To be fair, it had been the least of her worries at the time. Nevertheless, as Georgie hadn’t even realised she was walking into the water, she hadn’t exactly taken out her phone, leaving them without either of their go-to dictaphone’s. She did bring other microphones for use with the cameras, but she would rather her interview with Sasha James be more under the radar. So. Lo-fi it was. She flicked the switch of the tape recorder on, and hoped that this, at least, would be worth the headache of transferring it digitally later. 

“Ah, of course! Apologies, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting new people for a very long time; not since my husband died,” He took a short bow, still smiling, and Melanie refused to quiver under his piercing gaze, “My name is Elias. Elias Bouchard. Truly wonderful to meet you, my dear. Are you here for a visit?”

“My great-aunt,” Melanie replied, “You?”

Elias’ smile stretched, like thin rags, “Just an old friend. Now, I’m afraid time is getting on, and I must be too. As must you be as well, I don’t think such pretty women such as yourselves should be out too late at night.”

“Actually,” Georgie said, “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for us? Just about the house, it’s history; You said you lived here for a while, and we’d love to get your insight on anything you can tell us.”

“I cannot stay at present, but I could perhaps join you at the house? This evening, if that is not too imposing.”

“Of course not,” Georgie smiled, “If you could, that would be so helpful.”

“Well then,” Elias said, and his black eyes glittered in the fluorescent lights of the hospital, “I look forward to it. Farewell!”

The moment he was gone, Melanie clicked off the tape recorder, and turned to Georgie, “I don’t like him.”

“What, because he probably votes for the Tories and seems to have a bit of a backwards attitude towards women?”

“Well, yes, partially, but I’m serious Georgie,” Melanie sighed, “Something doesn’t feel right with him.”

Georgie was about to answer when they were interrupted by a tall, black woman in a doctor’s coat coming in and calling for Melanie amongst the room of visitors. 

“Miss King?” She asked, as the pair approached.

Melanie nodded, and she began to lead the two of them away, walking briskly down the hall and through the door that were marked “Authorised Personnel and Visitors Only.”

“I’m Doctor Annabelle Cane,” She said, still not slowing down despite her heels or the pair of them lagging behind her somewhat, “I’ve been in charge of your aunt’s care for the last two decades. It’s good to see that she does, indeed, have some family. No familial relations have visited since she was first incarcerated here.”

“Well,” Melanie said, floundering somewhat, “They don’t really like to speak about her, you know. Puts a downer on the Christmas parties, talking about the murderer in the family.” 

She attempted a laugh but it didn’t sound genuine even to her own ears. Dr Cane only hummed in response, before pausing before a set of double doors, much more secure than any of the previous they had passed through. 

“Hilltop Hospital is primarily a care facility for those that need psychiatric help. However, Miss James is one of the few patients that are mandated to be here by the state. Her condition and her age meant that she has remained here ever since the start of her sentence and has not been moved to another, more secure facility. I must warn you, however, that despite whatever condition she appears to be in, she is still a convicted murderer. Caution must be taken at all times. You are not permitted to touch her, to leave anything in her room, and you will be subject to a pat down before entering. Any gifts or cards should be left with a member of staff to be checked before being given to her.”

“She’s gotta be well into her 90’s by this time,” Melanie replied, incredulous, “She can’t actually pose a threat.”

“Unfortunately, she has a history of attacking visitors and some staff, though that has rescinded in recent years. We cannot be too careful, particularly with someone she doesn’t know.”

“We’ll be careful.” Georgie said, squeezing Melanie’s arm in a combination of support and admonishment. As annoyed as she was, Georgie was right; whatever they might think of the measures, it wouldn’t be useful if they were thrown out for arguing with the doctor, or refusing to follow procedures. 

“Of course,” Dr Cane said, which sounded like psychiatry speak for ‘you fucking better be’ to Melanie, and she led them through the door. 

As she had said, both of them were patted down by the security guards, who looked more bored than anything else, before being led down a grey-blue corridor and stopping in front of a door; number 39. 

“Dr Cane?” Melanie asked, “Could you elaborate on what exactly she did? My family, they… weren’t very detailed on the specifics.”

Dr Cane raised one, perfectly sculptured eyebrow, but answered, “After a fire at the mansion where she had previously worked, police were alerted to a potential break-in at the place. When they arrived, they found Miss James, literally, red-handed, leaning over the corpse of one Tim Stoker, who had been bludgeoned to death with a metal pipe to the point where he was almost entirely unrecognisable. Miss James’ fingerprints were on the pipe, and with no other witnesses or evidence, this was considered an open and shut case. She, however, insisted it had been someone else, and that she had been simply “following the ghosts”,” Dr Cane sighed, “Hence why she was admitted to a psychiatric unit.”

“Who did she say it was?” Georgie asked.

“I wasn’t around for her initial admittance,” Dr Cane said, looking deeply unimpressed, even as Georgie seemed completely indifferent to it, “But she claimed that a… Jonah Magnum? No, Magnus, had been responsible. But he had died a few days earlier, so was evidently not responsible.”

Melanie frowned, “What did he die of?” 

“Perhaps you should ask  _ his  _ doctor.” Dr Cane replied, drily, and unlocked the door in front of them. 

“Sasha? Remember how I mentioned you were going to have two visitors today? Your, ah, your niece is here,” She turned to Melanie and Georgie, “There’s a panic button located by the bed if you need it for any reason. We’ll be monitoring the situation through cameras, but there’s no sound, so that should give you some privacy.”

With a quick nod towards the occupant of the room, who had yet to come into view, Dr Cane ushered them inside, and closed the door behind them. 

Melanie blinked. The woman in the chair was hunched, curled in on herself with age. Her hands, marked and wrinkled, twisted inwards into claws, held tightly against her chest. Dull limp hair fell across her face, hiding her eyes for the moment. The room, if it were not for the reinforced window and door, could belong in any nursing home, with flowery bedspreads and sickly pink wallpaper. 

“Sasha?” Melanie asked, quietly, stepping forward with caution, flicking on the tape recorder in her pocket. “Sasha, my name is Melanie, and this is my friend Georgie. We just wanted to ask a few questions, is that alright?”

“I don’t know you,” The woman’s voice was coated in dust, the mechanisms behind speaking clearly unused for a long, long time, “Why have you come here? Did  _ he  _ send you?”

“We came of our own accord, because we have some questions that only you can give the answers to,” Georgie replied, “We’ve been staying in Magnus Hall, Sasha.”

“Even if I did answer all your questions about that place,” Sasha said with a dry laugh, “You won’t believe me. No one ever believes me.”

Georgie stepped forward then, standing by Melanie in a show of support, “We know what everyone says happened there isn’t the truth. We want to find the truth, Sasha. Can you help us?”

Sasha scoffed, and pulled her hand away, “What’s the point in truth if no one listens? There’s always three truths; my truth, your truth, and reality. My truth isn’t the one people listen to. It isn’t what they want to hear.”

Melanie knelt in front of the old woman, carefully reaching out her hand, and taking one of Sasha’s gnarled hands in her own. Quickly, Georgie stepped between her and the view of the camera.

“Sasha. Sasha, we’ve _seen_ them.”

Sasha froze, and her gaze met Melanie’s. Her eyes, though watery, and lined with age, were still bright, sharp in the afternoon light. 

“You’re lying,” She said, but her voice was no longer as sure as before.

“We don’t have proof,” Melanie admitted, “And you have no reason to trust us, but we saw them, and Sasha, whatever you can tell us, we’ll believe you.”

Her eyes flickered up, to Georgie, who nodded, “We’ve seen a lot of improbable things these last few days. Events that directly contradict what people think really happened. If you can tell us anything, anything about the house or what happened all those years ago, we might be able to tell the real story. We might even be able to clear your name.”

Sasha laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “To what end? I’ve been dead ever since I was imprisoned here. No family, no friends. What life is left for me now?” At their silence, she shook her head. “I’m as much of a ghost as the poor souls trapped in that house,” She paused, and then, biting down the hope in her voice, “Did you truly see them?”

“I saw Jonathan,” Melanie said. “I saw how he died. And Georgie was able to contact Martin Blackwood. We know he didn’t kill Jonathan, and we know that you didn’t kill your friend. There’s no proof, but…” She trailed off, and Georgie picked up the sentence, 

“But they’re still there. And we want to try and set them free.”

There is a long pause, before Sasha said, “We were trying to do the same thing. Tim and I, we… we went to the house, and I went upstairs to try and recover some documents that might prove Magnus…” She took a long breath, closing her eyes, “I heard a scuffle, but by the time I came downstairs, it was too late.”

“I’m so sorry,” Melanie said, squeezing her hand.

“I knew it was him,” Sasha said vehemently, “I knew that he set it up, that he called the police, got them to arrive at just the right moment that it would seem like I did it, but no one ever believed me. I know he wasn’t really dead. Everyone chalked it off as suicide after the death of his fiance, but I knew,” Sasha’s free hand curled into a fist, even as she winced with the pain of the movement, “I knew he wouldn’t just give up like that. Especially not when I was still here to try and denounce him. So he had to discredit me, lock me away so one one would ever listen to me again. We didn’t have any proof, Jon had anything related to Jonah Magnus hidden away so he couldn’t sabotage it, but I knew, I knew it was him that organised the fire. I don’t think he meant to kill Jon, but then again... Maybe he couldn’t stand the jealousy. He knew Jon would never truly belong to him. Perhaps he only meant to burn him, so he could keep him locked away under the guise of protection. Whatever happened, he is at fault, and both Jon and Martin paid the price of his greed.”

“Jonah Magnus.” Georgie said. It was a statement, not a question, but Sasha still nodded.

“He’s still alive, the bastard. Must have faked his death, got set up with a new name. A new life,” She scowled, “Still comes to visit me, to gloat. Don’t know what name he uses now, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction anymore,” Her eyes moved back to them, narrowed, “Be careful. He knows you’re there. He doesn’t want the truth getting out, and still, after all this time, he still wants the house.”

Melanie nodded, and smiled “Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye out, and besides, if he does come, we can handle him.”

Sasha did not smile back, “I sincerely hope you can,” She sagged slightly in the chair, putting her hand up to her face, “I apologise. It has been a very long time since I talked so much and… remembering is so hard, these days.”

“We’ll get out of your hair then,” Georgie said, “Thank you so much, Sasha.”

“We’ll find a way to help your friends,” Melanie said, standing up, “And clear your name, if we can. You, Tim, Martin, Jonathan… We’ll tell everyone the truth.”

Georgie nodded in agreement. “We promise.”

Sasha smiled sadly, “Be careful with those kinds of promises. They are far too easy to break. And please, if you do try… It’s Jon. Call him Jon. Only Magnus ever used his full name.”

Georgie knocked on the door, letting them know they were done, but suddenly Melanie jumped, and put her hand in her pocket. 

“Sorry, just… we found this. Can you tell us what it means?”

She pulled out the paper, the one she had found in the drawer that Jonathan, Jon, had pointed out to her. When Sasha saw what was written on it, she laughed, actual, mirthful laughter this time. 

“Overdramatic bastard,” She said, sad and fond. “It’s the passcode for Jon’s safe. Well, it was Gertrude’s, which is why… well, it was the day her cat died. The 24th March, 1916.”

She looked up to the girls then, as the door slid open behind them. Her eyes were shining, slightly misty and for a moment, Melanie could see the ghost of the strong young woman whose life had been entirely destroyed by the actions of one man. 

“Set them free,” She said, as the door closed between them, and she could have sworn, for a moment, it seemed like there was more than one person in that small, prison room.

* * *

**_1949_ **

“If you could keep the damage to a minimum, that would be perfect. One room, if you could.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, “That’s not normally what I’m hired for.”

“Miss Perry, I’m paying you double what you’re normally hired for. You just need to set one room on fire. That is all.”

“Hm. And the servant’s gotta be in it?”

“Yes. Minimum damage, only one casualty. Tragic, but ultimately forgettable.”

“How do I know who the servant is?”

“He’s the only one not invited to the wedding. I made sure of it. He won’t be in particularly smart clothing, unlike everyone else in the house. He will be easy to spot, I promise you.”

“Well. I really can’t complain, considering the money you’re paying me.”

“Let me assure you, Miss Perry, if I find out you, ah,  _ complained  _ to anyone about this particular job -”

“Jesus, I know my job doesn’t look it, but I am capable of some discretion. I won’t breathe a word, Mr Magnus.”

Jonah grinned, “ _ Perfect _ .”


	8. in which a plan is set in motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein outfits are tried on, Georgie reminisces and the fate of our protaganists is sealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the endgame now. Good luck everyone. 
> 
> BTW, there are a few lines of Melanie's that have been taken directly from MAG076 - have fun finding them! It was really intresting to incorperate an actual statement into this!

_**1949** _

“I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding,” Jon said, refusing to turn around to see the man in the doorway, “Isn’t it bad luck?””

“But how can I resist?” Jonah said, his hands ghosting over Jon’s bare shoulders, “When you look so ravishing, my dear Jonathan?”

As the wedding day approached, Jonah had become more bold. He visited often, every single day leading up the wedding. It was if he was looking for something, trying to catch them out. Martin was forced to keep away, forced to press notes from palm to palm and take the few moments they could get. Unlike Jonah’s expectant touches, and possessive looks, all of which would lead to a conclusion that both reviled and terrified Jon, Martin’s touches and very presence was reassuring, calm. A certainty where his life was only uncertainty. And every day, the time he was able to spend with Martin grew shorter. They only had their nights, and even those were in danger; as the workmen left and preparations lessened as everything fell into place, Jon couldn’t escape the feeling that Jonah was allowing them to be together. Allowing them to sit in the knowledge that their time together was short, and that it could not, would not last. 

Even with the plan, even as Sasha stayed up all night sewing a replica of Jon’s outfit for Martin, even as Tim hid supplies in the stable to be taken to Helen’s car, the more Jonah came to gloat, the more Jon feared. Jon was not a brave man. But, even with that, even with all that Jonah said and did and touched, Jon had come to terms with that fact, in certain circumstances, he was a very stubborn one.

“Don’t touch me,” Jon said, stepping away from Jonah, disgust twisting his features, folding his arms over his chest. He could not do much, but he could do this. All Jonah did was smile, as if he was merely indulging Jon’s behaviour, like he was a child or a particularly troublesome pet.

“Ah, but of course. You want our first night together to be special, Jonathan. It’s only natural. You want to wait until you are truly mine.”

“I won’t ever be yours,” Jon said, stepping back again, desperately wishing himself out of Jonah’s presence, “No matter what.”

Jonah continued to smile, even if it was tighter than before, “You broke before, Jonathan, accepting my proposal. You will do it again.”

Jonah moved towards him, and tilted Jon’s chin upwards, and while Jon flinched and tried to move away, his back hit only the wall, “I’m the only one that will ever want you properly, Jonathan. After all you have done,” His fingers lightly brushed over Jon’s scars, “After what you have become.”

“That isn’t true,” Jon said, and he was stubborn but he was not brave, and his voice shook as Jonah leaned closer.

“What was it that Gertrude used to say? Three truths; yours, mine and reality. Jonathan, you should have really learned by now,” Jonah smiled, leaning forward, and for a horrifying moment, Jon thought that Jonah was going to kiss him, take him, do whatever he wanted to him, and all Jon’s protests would not stop him. Jonah’s lips, instead, barely brushed the shell of his ear as he leaned in to whisper, “The only truth in this world is the one I make.”

“Get away from him, Jonah,” Jon had never been so glad to hear Martin’s voice, but he still locked eyes with Martin as he entered the room, silently talking down the righteous anger in his gaze.

Jonah turned around, still pressing Jon to the wall with one firm hand on his shoulder, “I’ll let that slide, Martin, just this once. I don’t want to get this suit scruffed;  _ I _ have to look presentable, after all.”

“I said, get away from him,” Martin repeated.

“Martin, don’t-” Jon said, but Jonah had already let go, hand trailing down to grip Jon’s hand tightly, and was now smiling, smug and delighted. 

“And what would you do to me if I hadn’t, hm? Do you think the police would take kindly to a brute attacking a man on his wedding day?”

Martin’s hands clenched into fists, but he did not reply. 

“You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood, Martin. A man’s wedding day is the happiest day of his life, afterall, and why shouldn’t I share some of that joy? Even with one as ungrateful as you.”

Jonah turned back to Jon, and lifted his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I’ll see you at the altar, my dear,” 

He walked towards the door, bowing his head in mock politeness to Martin. “Enjoy him while this lasts. After this is all over, I’ll be making some staffing changes around here. Can’t have disloyal employees, can we Jonathan?”

Neither of the men remaining replied, and all that was heard was Jonah’s laughter, echoing down the hall. Martin rushed forward as soon as it was gone.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

“I-I, yes, I’m alright, I’m fine,” Jon said, still somewhat shakily, “He didn’t hurt me. Just his usual intimidation.”

Martin eyed him carefully, as if he was trying to catch out any lie, and Jon caught his hands, nervous and fussing, and pressed them gently to his lips for a small kiss. It had taken some time, but Jon had quickly fallen in love with the way that small acts of tactile affection made Martin blush and melt. 

“I’m fine, Martin. I promise.”

“He was cutting it a bit close,” Martin replied, “We need to get you out of those clothes.”

“Please,” said Jon, relieved. It wasn’t his usual style, and dug into him in cruel and unusual ways, the lace fabric irritating his skin. The clothes that Martin handed him in return were not his usual style of ‘scruffy academic’ either, but they were loose and comfortable, and came with a cap that hid his distinctive hair, and a scarf that would hide his scars from anyone that was looking for them. Sasha entered, chided them fondly for the delay, and handed Martin his own disguise. It wasn’t a perfect copy of Jon’s, but it was, hopefully, enough to fool anyone who was watching, especially with the veil. 

“He’s gone,” Tim said, coming up after Sasha, “I watched him and his carriage leave. There doesn’t look like there’s anyone left, but we can’t be too careful. Either way, anyone that would actually recognise either of you with the disguises on has gone. We’re good to go, but we have to go quickly.”

All too soon, they were at the front door, Martin shifting uncomfortably, and Jon twisting his hands, nervous. They kept twitching towards Martin, as if he wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but was afraid too. As Tim pulled the carriage around, Sasha pressed a kiss to Martin’s cheek. 

“Good luck,” She said, before doing the same to Jon, “Both of you. I need to get myself where I have plausible deniability for helping you escape; the kitchen door will be open, alright?”

“Sasha,” Martin said, but the words fail in his mouth. 

She smiled at him instead, “Send me a letter when you can find the words to say thank you. Knowing you two will be safe, that’s all I need.”

Tim opened the door then, and he looked more serious than he ever had before. 

“It’s time.”

Martin swallowed nervously, and Jon nodded. He moved to follow after Martin, even as Tim protested. Sasha lay a hand on his arm, saying something quietly in his ear. 

To Jon, stepping inside the carriage felt like walking the steps to his execution. Even as he knew that he wouldn’t be riding in it with Martin, he felt the oppressive weight of it, of expectation, of judgement, of  _ Jonah _ . 

“Jon,” Martin said, turning at the entrance of the carriage, “Jon, if this is the last time,”

Jon shook his head, grabbing a hold of Martin’s hand and squeezing it tight. “Don’t, don’t say that,” He chuckled, humourless, “It’s my line.”

“What, I’m not allowed to worry?”

“No,” Jon said, and pulled Martin in for a fierce kiss. It felt like their first all over again, desperate and uncontrolled and filled with that swooping plunge into the unknown. 

“Jon,” Martin said, when they reluctantly pulled apart, and he carefully wiped the tears from Jon’s eyes, “I’ve never said it before, but, -”

“- Martin -”

“I love you.”

Jon sighed, and pressed their foreheads together, breathing in the scent of Martin; tea and books and  _ freedom _ . 

“I love you too. And I promise you,” He pulled back, looking directly into Martin’s eyes, “I promise you, I’m not leaving here without you. No matter what happens. I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

“I’ll find you, Jon,” Martin said, quiet, more solemn than Jon had ever heard him, “Whether it’s in the car, or in Scotland, or a thousand miles away, I’ll find you.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” Jon replied, putting all that he could not say into that sentence; that he wished that he had never said yes to Jonah, that he could walk in the sun with Martin without fear, without the threat hanging over their shoulders. He wished that he had met Martin a long time ago, a different place, a different time, where they were allowed to simply  _ be _ , without anything else. 

“I know,” Martin said, simply. What more else was there to say?

With excruciating tenderness, Jon pressed his lips to Martin’s hand; Martin, sitting down in the carriage now, made no move to pull his hand back. He kept holding on, as long as he could, until Tim motioned for the carriage to start. 

For a moment, they held on still, skin to skin, palm to palm, a holy palmers kiss. A slight brush of contact as one hand was pulled unwillingly away. Then Jon’s hand was empty, bereft, as he watched the carriage pull out of the driveway and stumble, slow, towards the church. 

He clenched and slowly unclenched his fists. He had a chance, now. He couldn’t waste it. The last few things from his attic would need to be collected, and quickly. 

The woman in the bushes saw the man in servant’s clothes turn and reenter the house. In her pocket was a bottle of petrol and another of whisky; and in her hand, she held a matchbox, lowering from lighting the cigarette hanging from her lips. 

The bride was gone, and the servant remained. The woman straightened up, and set off down the hill. She had a job to do.

* * *

_**2019** _   
  


Melanie felt her unease rise once more as she fell into step with Georgie on the walk home. Sasha had been unexpectedly helpful, and Melanie could only hope that dragging up this old woman’s past would be worth it. Still, Georgie’s contemplative silence lent itself to plenty of time to think, and well, no one can judge her on her plans so far. Except Georgie, who turned to Melnie with a practiced expression on her face.

“I already said I’m not going to leave, and I won’t give up now, but, Melanie, but I really don't think a summoning circle or ouija board is a good idea. Those things are complete bullshit anyway.”

“I’m not suggesting that, exactly” Melanie replied, “But I want to try summoning the spirit in the house, Jon. We know that reaching out works, but it’s still not precise, and it’s still, you know, risky. With a seance, there is structure, and I can control it a lot easier than just, reaching out to anything and everything. We’ll be in control, and we know we’ll be talking to Jon. Hopefully.”

“Melanie,” Georgie’s voice was low and serious, more serious than she had ever heard it, “Those kinds of things… they’re unpredictable. Dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I do know what I’m doing!” Melanie protested, “I’ve done a bunch of research when we did one for my show; all perfectly safe, not like that other one, where they do it to antagonize the ghosts. Trust me, Georgie, I know what I’m doing.”

Georgie turned away, “Not with this, Mel.”

“Georgie…” Melanie tried again, “I know what happened at the lake wasn’t… ideal, but that was just talking to them, just reaching out blindly. I can control this, I have controlled this! If anything does happen, I can pull you out of it. Or you can pull me out. We’re a team.”

Her last sentence came out a lot more hopeful in her tone than she had expected. She bit her lip, now anxious for Georgie’s reply. Perhaps that had been too pushy, or Georgie hadn’t fully recovered from what happened at the lake, or maybe Georgie really, honestly didn’t want her around -

“We are a team, Melanie. But as your teammate, I’m telling you that you aren’t prepared for the consequences of what might happen. Seances are dangerous, full stop. We can talk to the ghosts, sure, try and record them reaching out to us, but when we reach out…” Gerorgie shook her head, “Sometimes the wrong thing reaches back.”

“We might just have to risk that. They have reached out to us, but we still have no clear answers. Isn't that what you said you were going to find out?” Melanie insisted, “Back at the lake, you were so determined, you didn’t even care about it trying to drown you! If you really don’t want to do it, we won't. But, sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get answers.”

“Not  _ you _ ,” Georgie said, so viciously that Melanie took an involuntary step back. “I won’t sacrifice anyone else for  _ answers _ . Not again.”

There was a stretch of silence; on that road to back to that old lonely home, the wind gently rustled in the trees, whispering comfort, secrets. 

“Georgie…” Melanie said, carefully, as she watched Georgie press a hand to the bridge of her nose, “It’s alright. It was only a suggestion -”

“I’m sorry,” Georgie said with a sigh, “I shouldn't have reacted like that, I just… This morning, by the lake, it brought up some bad memories.”

“It’s Alex, isn’t it?” Melanie asked, quietly, and winced when Georgie stiffened, “You… you were calling out for her. That’s how I found you, at the lake,” She paused, then carried on, hurriedly, “You don’t have to tell me, I-”

“It’s alright,” Georgie stopped her, “It’s alright, Mel. We both came here with baggage, and when this place is deliberately messing with our feelings… The moment all of this started happening, I should have known,” She shook her head, “I can’t run away from this. I can’t decide to use ghost hunting and then not use any of the techniques. I can’t promise a lost soul that I’ll help and then refuse to do something that might free them.”

She started walking forward again, and gestured for Melanie to do the same. 

“Do you remember,” Georgie said, “When you asked me if I was afraid, in the fog?”

“Yeah,” Melanie said, “You said it wasn’t your fear. I didn’t really understand, but...”

“Because it wasn’t my fear. I haven’t felt fear for over two years now.”

“What?” Melanie asked, “What does that even  _ mean _ ?”

“It means that I can’t feel fear, Melanie, exactly what it says on the tin. It was cut out of me, carved,  _ cauterised _ , and even though everything else came back, that never will. I’m not stupid, I still recognise danger, well, most of the time. Anticipation, tension, all of that remains, though I don’t know if it’s exactly the same as it once was. But the fear is gone.”

“How… How did something like that even happen?” Melanie asked, unable to stop herself. 

“I didn’t start my podcast alone.. It was my best friend, Alex, who was really into all of that ghost stuff; she was a medical student, and loved the gruesome and ghoulish, anything that could send a shiver up her spine. In uni, we started What the Ghost - she would do the research and a lot of the tech stuff, and I knew editing and apparently I had a ‘good reading voice’. We were a good team.”

She might not be able to feel fear, but she sounded so desolate still. On instinct, Melanie reached out and took her hand. Georgie didn’t acknowledge it beyond a tight squeeze, and continued to speak. 

“She wanted to go on location for our series finale. She had heard about an old building on the uni campus, part of the medical school, that was supposedly haunted by the bodies they bring in for dissections, and considering how close it was, she wanted to do an on-location episode, and hopefully drum up a little more interest in our show. And to make it even more extra-special… We were going to do a proper seance. Candles, a board, even a summoning circle and ritual that we got off the internet.”

Georgie kept walking, but she took a deep breath before continuing. “Honestly, I don’t remember very much of the seance, not in any detail. But we summoned something. I don’t know if it was once human and had been corrupted, or if it had never been human in the first place. I don’t know what would be worse. I remember running, trying to find a way through the maze of white corridors and sterilized doors of the medical building, just to find Alex and get the hell out of there. And when I thought I found her -” She shook her head, and Melanie squeezed her hand tightly, “The next thing I know, I’m waking up at home, my mother is weeping when she sees me, and I can’t feel a thing. It took me months until I was able to live properly, albeit without my fear, but… I never saw Alex again. I don’t know what happened to her; officially, she’s still missing. And I’ve been making What the Ghost on my own ever since. Maybe, maybe though it I could find out what happened to her. It was her baby, her project, and it was a way for me to… to feel closer to her, after she was gone,” Georgie huffed out a laugh, “The first emotion to come back was grief.”

“Georgie, I… I’m so sorry,” Melanie said, soft and gentle. Georgie turned to her, and smiled for the first time since the conversation started.

“It’s alright,” She said, “You’re… you’re the first person I’ve told that too, and well.” She gave a self-deprecating smile, “I’m glad it was you.”

“Gee, you make my trauma baggage sound like peanuts compared to yours,” Melanie said after a moment, covering up her awkwardness and the tension between them with an attempt at humour. 

“Melanie,” Georgie said quietly, when it was clear that neither of them were laughing, “I know about the video. And I know there’s more to it than what everyone said there was.”

“Damnnit,” Melanie said, with a smile that was more pained than anything at the reminder, “And here I thought I finally met a pretty girl who didn’t know about my status as an internet mockery.”

“Whatever you saw in that train shook you up badly, and you can’t be blamed for your reaction to that. It’s only natural, after all,” Georgie said, gently, but Melanie shook her head. 

“Yeah, but I can be blamed for being an asshole to my crew and insisting we go investigate places that our own industry refused to look into. For insisting on continuing the investigation when the whole world thought I had gone off the deep end. I can still be blamed for my career going sideways after I got drunk and sad and angry and still had access to my Twitter account.”

“Well, alright, I can’t comment on that,” Georgie said, in a voice that was a world away from her solemnity from before, the teasing tone she seemed to reserve only to brighten Melanie’s morale, “But, from what I’ve seen so far, you’re doing a lot to get some absolution. Even if I don’t think you need it.”

“My show is all I’ve got anymore,” Melanie admitted, “It’s all I ever had, really, but everything that I clawed out for myself, my place in our industry, my reputation, all of my old friends… everything else is gone,” She eyed Georgie carefully, “There’s places, loads of them, that seem perfect for a ghost hunting show. Murder and mystery and best of all, no one seems to have looked into them. Like Magnus Hall. I thought I’d stumbled upon a goldmine of Ghosthunt UK exclusives, and started asking around, seeing if anyone else had ever investigated them. The more I asked though, the more distance there was between me and my colleagues, my friends. Like they sensed I was crossing some unspoken line about what we were allowed to investigate. What was safe, what wasn’t. I couldn’t go back, though. It was like once I had seen that there was a path to stray from, I couldn’t unsee it. And I couldn’t ignore the call from the woods all around. It was too big, too widespread for me to just ignore. So even if I was alone, even if I had to do my show all by myself, I’d figure it out.”

“Even if it might have been dangerous?” Georgie asked.

“All the more reason too. These kinds of places were all over, and unlike all the ‘safe’ places we investigated, nobody knew about them. And people were still going missing. Everyone had a story about the friend who’d gone to the wrong place alone and disappeared or had quit the paranormal scene without explanation. I’d heard them all before, but now they weren’t just pub chatter spook stories, they were not-so-subtle warnings about straying from the path. Maybe it’s just arrogance, or hubris, that I thought I wouldn’t be just another statistic, that I would be the one to actually solve this huge conspiracy. And then...”

“Then the train,” Georgie finished. 

“I know what I saw in there,” Melanie said, then shook her head, “No. I have no idea what I saw. But it was real. I know that.” Carefully, she pulled back her shirt sleeve, exposing the thin, almost surgically precise scar on her shoulder.

“Scrap metal doesn’t do that,” She said, firmly, looking to Georgie, almost daring her to disagree, but Georgie simply nodded. 

“That case ended up going nowhere, I couldn’t chase any more leads, so… I picked the next one on the list. Here. Used the last of my funds to get here, hoping that whatever was here could, would prove that I’m not crazy. If I can’t get an episode out soon, or find something, I’m done. I might as well go work in an office or something.”

“Melanie King, working in an office?” Georgie said, “I think the world would end before that day comes.”

Melanie huffed a quiet laugh, feeling a small smile break across her face. Georgie believed her. She had thought she was okay with being alone, with no one believing her until she proved it, completely and irrevocably. Even as they were walking back towards the house, she felt lighter than air. Georgie  _ believed  _ her. 

“It’s more than that, though,” Melanie said, “Even though what I had seen had scared the shit out of me, even though it would probably be dangerous, I had to. I couldn’t just… let it win, you know? I know that sounds stupid but…”

“This is your life,” Georgie finished, “You’ve dedicated your whole life to this. We’re not going to give up now. Not when we’re so close.”

The house came into view at the end of the path, rising like a shepherd’s morning sun on the curve of the drive. 

“That doesn’t mean we have to do anything that you don’t want to do,” Melanie said. “There are other ways. Maybe less effective, but, you’re right. We are a team. And that means not putting the other in danger.”

“It also means,” Georgie said with a sigh, “That they have each other’s backs. Even when it might get dangerous. Besides, if this house has shown me anything, it’s that I can’t run from the past. It always comes back.” 

“Georgie…” Melanie said, softly, but Georgie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and turned to look at her, a determined look in her eye. 

“We’ll do the seance. Not because you have to prove yourself, or because it would make a great episode. But because we promised Sasha. Because there are two or more souls trapped here by the actions of one evil man, and we owe it to them to help them.”

The look that passed across her face was not unlike the look that Melanie had seen on the face of Sasha James; mournful and fond, the look of someone at a loved one’s funeral. Only for Georgie, there was a fire behind her eyes, rather than the embers that had been ruthlessly stamped out by years of gaslighting. 

“Because,” Georgie said, with a smile like tears in rain, “It’s what Alex would have done.”


	9. in which shit well and truly hits the fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein What The Ghost makes a triumphant return, Georgie engages in paperwork, and Martin goes for a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, I know I kept you guys waiting for a week, and I am sorry for the delay but it's for a good reason - this fic, apart from the epilogue, is complete! Seeing as this chapter was the first of the finale chapters, I wanted to wait until it was all written so I could make sure it all worked out the way I wanted it, and give you guys the best ending possible.
> 
> That said, this fic is coming to a close within the next few weeks. This is the climax, and this is where some of my above tags come into play, where they might not have applied before. If that bothers you, or if you aren't in the right space to read something that is tragic/potentially disturbs you, feel free to press that back button! Thank you for coming along on this ride!
> 
> If you've decided to continue, thank you, and well, strap in. It's always darkest before the dawn. 
> 
> Please listen to this while you read, if you are able: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClC2YUBtVvI  
> The Secret History by the Chamber Orchestra of London. It's a truly wonderful piece of music that really captures specifically Martin's emotional journey in this chapter

_**2019** _

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Melanie asked, unwinding yards of wires and hooking them into her one remaining good camera.

Georgie shot her a distracted smile as she hauled the last of the extension leads up the stairs to the outside of the attic, where they were setting up, “I’m fine, Melanie. Promise. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t already made that decision.”

Melanie stopped, reaching out a hand for Georgie. It had become so natural, and after just a moment’s hesitation, Georgie took it. 

“Just… know that you’re more important than any ghost, okay?” Melanie said, “No matter what we said we would do, if something bad happens, or the moment you want me to shut it down, just tell me.”

Georgie’s expression softened, and she smiled, “Thank you, Mel. That means a lot.”

She turned, letting go of Melanie’s hand (and oh, didn’t Melanie’s hand just ache without it?) and gestured to the wires, “This is the last of them. Are you ready?”

In response, Melanie pressed the record button on the camera and clapped twice, the sound levels showing clearly on her display. Pulling her spare EMF reader out of its case, she turned it on and set it on the table so they could see it clearly. Too high, and they had agreed to stop. This was perhaps the most prepared she had ever been for something like this; one main camera for actual recording, and then her thermal imaging camera was set up, pointed directly at the door handle. They had turned all the lights off downstairs, so as not to interfere with the EMF, lighting candles in the old wall brackets and on the landing so they could still see their way. 

The Admiral had been set up in the kitchen, keeping him well out of harm's way, with a pile of food and a few treats scattered in corners for him to find. Even then, though, he had mewled pitifully when Georgie had left him there, winding his way around her legs and imploring her to stay. It was like he knew what they were doing. It didn’t exactly bode well for their chances, but Melanie wouldn’t, couldn’t consider it. 

“As we’ll ever be,” She replied. “Do you want to start this or shall I?”

“It’s your show,” Georgie said, smiling, and she gestured to the empty space in front of the camera, “I’ll jump in if I think of anything particularly important.”

“Alright,” Melanie stepped in front of the camera, and took a deep breath, before smiling. She hoped it looked more genuine and less fearful than it felt. 

“Hi, everyone, and welcome to the home of the world’s weirdest spider web, which Georgie here tells me is actually ionized soot, which, I guess, the more you know. But we aren’t here to talk about strange chemical processes,” Melanie put on a more serious tone for the next part of her introduction, “No, it is the second night we are spending in Magnus Hall, and tonight we are going to be doing something a little more intensive than just using a spirit box.”

Georgie said, “We’re going to be doing a seance.”

“Not quite yet though!” Melanie replied, “Ideally, we would want to conduct this kind of investigation in the room with the biggest connection to the spirit we are trying to call forth. In this case, to try and contact Jon Sims, we would do this in the attic, which is where he died. The problem is, though,”

She leant forward and, despite having checked before the cameras were even up the stairs, still hesitated for a moment before trying the door handle, “As you can see, locked up nice and tight.”

“So, in the spirit, heh, of politeness, we’re going to do a little bit what is known as spirit rapping,” Georgie continued, “Essentially, call out to Jon’s spirit, as I’m sure you’ve all seen before, but encouraging the use of knocking for him to reply. Then, hopefully, he’ll open the door for us.”

“And if not, that’s what my foot is for,” Melanie said, stepping back into position beside Georgie, “At the very least, we asked permission, which hopefully sets us up nicely for a dialogue once we are in the attic and have started the seance. So without further ado, Georgie?”

They had agreed that it might be better to Georgie to speak here, seeing as she had the most luck summoning the spirit by the lake, but Melanie still sent a more somber, questioning look her way. 

_ Are you sure about this? _

As if sensing Melanie’s question, Georgie smiled reassuringly. Without a care for the camera in front of her, she took Melanie’s hand, and squeezed it tight. 

_ Yes.  _

“I'm talking to the spirit that inhabits this house,” Georgie said, her voice now low and serious. It echoed, even in the small space of the staircase. She did not let go of Melanie’s hand, “Are you there? Can you hear me? If you can, knock for us. Once for no, twice for yes.”

Silence. Outside, where the sun had already begun to set, the wind softly whistled through the rotten wood above them, a high piercing tune. The note balanced carefully on the edge of jolly and uneasiness. All that Melanie could hear was the gentle sounds of Georgie’s breathing. She almost wished that nothing would happen, even if it meant the death of her show. 

No. Melanie had been scared before, and she would not cower in the face of some stupid ghost. Melanie held her breath for a moment, her eyes coming to rest on the EMF. It was still green, but every few seconds, it spiked up to yellow. Just as it had been on the first day she had come to this place, she felt that single overwhelming presence. She was more sure than ever that someone,  _ something  _ was watching her. Maybe it was Jon, maybe it was someone else, she didn’t know. But there was something, some hidden eyes or shadowy figures, of that she was certain. In comparison to Georgie’s forced calm, Melanie cast her eyes around, trying to take in the whole space at once, be on the lookout for anything that might -

_ Knock knock _

“I'm speaking to the lost soul that abides in this place,” Georgie said, her voice very deliberately calm. “I ask again, can you hear me?”

This time, the EMF went straight past yellow and flashed bright red, and there was a louder  _ knock knock. _ It sounded like it was coming from the other side of the attic door. 

“Okay, well, we’ve established that,” Melanie muttered, before speaking up herself, forcing her voice to sound as steady as Georgie’s, “Are you the spirit of Jonath- Jon Sims?”

_ Knock knock. _

Melanie breathed out slowly, nodding. “Alright. Okay. Okay. That’s. Okay. We want to find out what happened to you. Do you know what happened to you?”

There was a long pause. 

_ Knock. _

“We want to help you,” Georgie continued, “We want to help you know. And we can only do that if we know what’s in your study. So we’re asking… Can you open the door for us? Can you show us what’s inside, and help us solve your mystery?”

There was no answer. The EMF reader dropped back to nothing, just a single green light in the dark of the stairway. The feeling of being watched, of being known, did not recede. If anything, it intensified, and Melnie felt Georgie flinch as she herself did, under the weight of it. 

A creak in front of them brought them both back to the matter at hand. 

Slowly, intentionally, with no pause, the attic door opened.

* * *

_**1949** _

The carriage rumbled on, inexorable and inevitable. Like a man doomed to the gallows, Martin did not speak, nor did he glance at the world he was about to leave behind. Instead, he ran his hands up and down the delicate lacing of his outfit, tracing the designs that Sasha had worked so hard to try and replicate. He couldn’t cry. He refused too, on principle; it would just be another victory that Jonah had against him. Instead, he felt the fabric on his fingers and turned the plan over in his mind over and over again. 

Church, carriage, car. Jon. Church, carriage, car. Jon. 

The church, surely that would be where it became most dangerous. That’s when Jonah would realise he had been tricked, where there was the biggest risk that he would not allow Martin to leave. That’s what Tim was for; to provide a distraction that allowed Martin to ride to Jon and the car out of here. It took just under an hour to get to the church, and every minute Martin was stuck there, worrying his lip and the line of his clothes, felt like an eternity.

Jon had promised him. He had to believe in that, believe in Jon. Soon, they would be in Scotland, and for the first time in both of their lives, they might actually be safe. Safe from Jonah and his machinations, safe from Gertrute’s lingering legacy. They could have a life, a full life, and it was this thought and this thought alone that kept him from spiralling. 

Birthdays and Christmases and gentle Saturday afternoons. A  _ future _ . 

Martin had never really given any kind of thought to the future, not when there were bills to pay and his mother to look after and besides, what kind of future would he have? Isolation was assured, and poverty was almost entirely certain. With Peter, he thought that even if he were to be alone his entire life, die lonely, at least it would have been well cared for. It wasn’t long before he learned the truth of the matter; no amount of money was worth isolation, no amount of money was worth Peter, watching him fade and fade and enjoying the show. 

He had sent some of the money that had been set aside for him and Jon to his mother; he couldn’t just completely abandon her. But there had been no acknowledgement of his letter, nor any of the ones he had sent either here or when he was at Moorland House. When he disappears, he thought, she would not even notice. If it wasn’t for his friends here, he could have disappeared a long time ago and the world would be none the wiser.

His future wasn’t at Moorland House. His future was not within two rooms in London with someone who barely acknowledged his existence. His future was with Jon, a future that he hadn’t even realised existed, and that was the thought that he allowed himself to focus on, even as the trees zipped by him and the church grew ever closer. 

Martin was so busy, running over the plan again and again in his mind, that he missed the first shouts. At first, it was only a few, people moving fast in the opposite direction to them. Unusual, but not enough to distract him from his worry. There were other cottages around the lake, he knew. It was fine. Could just be kids, playing in the woods. That’s all it was. All it could be.

Any other part of him would brush it off, if it were not for the panicked way in which people were gesturing ahead, shouting, pointing. Against his will, and without entirely knowing why, Martin began to feel very, very afraid. 

The first vehicle to pass him was an ambulance, and Martin clenched his fist and tried not to scream in frustration at the pace of the carriage. His heart was beginning to pound in his chest, straining against all his will to break free, to run, to see if something truly was wrong. 

_ It’s fine,  _ he told himself, trying to calm his racing heart and the dread pooling like blood in his stomach,  _ It’s fine. There are other cottages around the lake. You’re being stupid and overdramatic. It’s  _ **_not_ ** _ Jon. _

Tim slowed the carriage against the steadily increasing flow of people, and Martin stood, leaning forward and out to try and talk to Tim, to ask him if he knew what was wrong, if there was any way for them to hurry up. Maybe with all of this, they could bypass the church completely, and he could meet Jon already.  _ They would be gone, they would be free. It’s fine.  _

No one ever really expects tragedy to mar their life. Not truly; you know that one day the people you love will die, you know that people die of accidents and sickness before they ever turn old and grey. Martin had lived with tragedy his whole life, from his mother, to the circumstances of his birth, to his months at Moorland House. He had weathered it, been moulded from it, come out battered and bruised but alive. Even still, he was human. Even now, he did not truly believe that this would be his ruin. No one ever believes it, not until it was far too late.

That was when the fire engine rushed past, bright red against the green and brown of the forest. Impossible to ignore, even with the panic running through his veins. 

“Tim!” He didn’t know how he wanted Tim to respond; reassurance maybe, or perhaps the same worry mirrored in his friends face. 

He has never seen Tim so scared before. 

“Tim!” He said, fighting to keep his voice steady as the carriage rattled on the stones and his heart clawed at his throat, “Tim, what’s going on?”

Tim opened his mouth to reply, but Keckwick, the young man who occasionally helped out at the house, was running past and caught sight of them.

“There’s a fire at the house, sir!” Keckwick shouted to them, and Martin’s heart froze in terror.

“It can be seen all the way from the village!” Keckwick kept saying, but Martin was no longer listening. 

“Turn the carriage around!” He said.

“I’m trying!” Tim shouted back, “There’s too many people, I could hit someone!”

“ _ Christ _ ,” Martin said. He didn’t have time for this, the house, he had to get to the house. The road was too full of people, and who knew whether Jonah would come back in his car, or if there would be another fire engine. He could cut through the forest, and without the carriage or the obstacles on the path, he would get there faster than if he took the road. He threw open the carriage door, as Tim struggled to turn the horse around on the small dirt road. Tim caught his eye then, and nodded.

“Go, Martin! I’ll be right behind you!”

Martin didn’t need permission. He turned, and sprinted into the forest. 

* * *

_**2019** _

The study was cold. That struck Melanie first, that this room she had only been in whilst it had been ablaze, was far colder than anywhere else in the house. Whether that was a cold spot in the traditional ghost-hunting sense, or just the fact that the window had been hastily repaired after the fire, it was impossible to say. 

What had once been pages and pages of notes pinned to the wall were now black and peeling, like sunburnt skin. Wherever secrets had been there before were long gone, turned to ashes over time. The remains of furniture were scattered, pushed to the side, and Melanie knew, suddenly, that the last time anyone had been in here had been when they were retrieving Jon’s body. 

Her eyes, unwilling, were drawn to the spot at the window where she had been before. Though, had she? She had never stepped in this room before, never even been close, and yet; she knew that the desk was supposed to be nearer the wall, that the boxes were all out of order, and that the safe…

Eyes curl on the back of her neck. Melanie shivered, composing herself. The eyes did not move, even as she strode, purposefully, towards the safe. The floorboards creaked under her, bearing the weight of a living person for the first time in years. 

Next to her, Georgie bent over the desk, but all the paper that remained turned to ash in her hands.

The safe clicked open, easily, as if it was ready and waiting to dislodge its contents. Inside, a stack of messy files, untouched by the devastation surrounding them. And on top of them, a small scrap of paper, slightly singed, and signed in a messy scrawl that matched the handwriting on the paper she had found previously. 

With Georgie now bent down next to her, she pulled it out and read it. 

_ I broke my promise. Ruin him. I’m sorry, Martin.  _

Carefully, she took the stack of files from the safe, and together, they began to flip through them. First though, she paused at a photograph at the front of the file. It was of four people, black and white and taken on the front steps of Magnus Hall. A man and a woman at the back had their arms thrown around each other, and even decades before she had ever met her, Melanie recognised the intense gaze of Sasha James, even if in this photograph, she was smiling, happily held by the man next to her, which she guessed must be Tim Stoker. Which meant that the two men in front must be…

“Jon,” Georgie said, from over her shoulder, and pointed to the shorter, thinner man, hiding scars with his long salt-pepper hair, “So that’s Martin?”

She phrased it as a question, but both of them knew she was right. Martin was larger than Jon, in almost every sense, but it was comforting, homely even. There was an easiness in his manner, though anxiety still was clear. There was no doubt to it, even though Georgie had not seen Jon’s death as Melanie had. In the photo, they both looked somewhat awkward, unsuited to the medium, but it was clear that even through the decades, they were holding hands. 

The file itself was almost incomprehensible at first; that same mess of handwriting, pointing out details in financial reports, handwritten witness statements. Slowly, though, a picture began to build up; financial misconduct, small bank accounts with fortunes hidden inside, subsidiary companies under subsidiaries. A trail of crimes, from the smallest to the largest, and all laid out cleanly, waiting for an action. From the layer of dust, nothing had ever come of it.

“God,” Melanie said, thickly, “God, it’s all here. Everything they would have needed to destroy Magnus. They never got a chance to use it.”

“Look at this, though,” Georgie said, “Magnus was funnelling money into a bunch of different companies; Wright Industries, the Lukas Institute… Especially one of the inheritors, Peter. He’s coming up a lot in here.” Georgie flicked through the pile, “Magnus Manufacturing was doing a lot of shady shit, according to these statements, but incredibly well hidden. Several times, it seems, that it was raised as an issue, or a concern and then he used his considerable influence to silence it. They’d need… well, they need something like this to actually change things. Something that's almost completely irrefutable.” 

“But it never got out,” Melanie said, “No one ever found this, and Magnus, what, faked his own death?”

“He certainly had the funds for it, if Sasha is right,” Georgie mused. “Could have sent it to one of his friends, ready to assume a new identity with his money.”

“What do we do with this?” Melanie asked, “It’s too late for it to make much of a difference. Most of these companies went out of business years ago. Jon and Martin and Tim are still dead, Sasha is still locked up. None of this proves what actually happened that day.”

“Then that’s what we have to do. Even if we can’t take this through more official channels, we can still put it out therein the best way we know how. We put this mystery to bed, and the spirits here can rest,” Georgie replied, determined, “Let's get the camera and mic in here. We have a seance to start.”

Melanie placed the folder to the side, and set about the familiar motions of camera, microphones, EMP, until it was all ready to go. It felt like it had all gone too quickly; the dread in the pit of her stomach had only deepened. 

The eyes still bored into the back of her neck, even if she turned to look and there was nothing there. They were waiting for something. 

“I believe this is your area of expertise,” Georgie said, startling Melanie out of her thoughts, “I’ve got the cameras rolling. I’m ready whenever you are.”

Melanie flashed her a quick smile, but Georgie must have seen through it easily enough, because she reached out and grabbed Melanie's hand. 

“I believe in you,” She said, squeezing it once, but not letting go. 

“Okay,” Melanie said, centuring herself, “Alright. Here we go,” She looked up, and straight into the camera, letting her mask fall across her face once again. 

“So, as you might have seen, we got into the attic, and, well, we get why it’s locked now!” Next to her, she heard Georgie huff out a small laugh. “Now, it’s time for us to get into the real seance. Essentially, instead of simply calling out to the ghosts as we did before, we will be actively summoning them to use the means we put at their disposal. In this case, we will be using automatic writing.” Melanie produced a pen and paper, and held it up to the camera, “It’s something you guys have seen before on this channel, but this time, we both will be holding onto the pen as it moves. This not only is more likely to keep us safe against any potentially negative forces, but hopefully, for all you naysayers out there, shows a little bit more objectivity.”

“You’re petitioning the YouTube comments there, Mel,” Georgie said, “When has that ever worked?”

“Alright, fair,” Melanie conceded with a smile, “But we aren’t here to complain about the Youtube comments section.”

“No, we’ll leave that for the behind the scenes,” Georgie replied, before squeezing Melanie’s hand again, “You ready?”

“That’s my line,” Melanie said, but she nodded, “Alright. We are reaching out to the spirit of Jonathan Sims. Jon, if you are here, you can use our hands, our arms to communicate with us. We’re holding a pen, we have everything we need if you want us to hear a message, anything that you might need us to know. Any unfinished business?”

Her words echoed in the hollow room, and neither of their hands moved. 

“Jon, you opened the door for us. You pointed out the code for us to get into your safe. Before, you wanted to help us, and I’m asking you to help us one more time, so we can put your spirit to rest. So, can you tell us, though us, Jon…  _ Who killed you?” _

Melanie isn’t moving her arm. Under her hand, she could feel Georgie’s soft skin, her heartbeat under her palm. It was steady, even though Melanie’s jumps and hops like a rabbit. Melanie isn’t moving her arm. Georgie took in a breath suddenly, and Melanie followed her gaze down to the paper in front of them. Slow, dreadful in it’s pace, the pen started to move. Melanie could feel it moving, can feel the ink drag across the page, stutter and stop before it started again, pulling away into letters, into a word. 

_ M A G N U S _

Melanie breathed out slowly, “Well. That’s.... That’s about as clear as we are gonna get. Okay. Next question, then. Do you know what happened to Tim Stoker?”

It wasn’t as well paced as before, but carefully, the pen drew two solid black lines under Magnus’s name. 

“Right,” Georgie said, “If I didn't believe Sasha before, I do now.”

There hadn’t been a question, but the pen began to move again regardless.

_ SASHA OKAY? _

The girls exchanged a look. “She’s safe,” Georgie said, finally. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either. 

Faster this time, much more urgent and desperate in its movements. It began to look alot more like the scrawl that had graced much of the files from the safe. 

_ MARTIN? _

“We were going to ask you something similar,” Melanie said, carefully, “We’ve… talked to Martin, but we haven't been able to get any clear answers.”

_ WHERE _

“Jon, he’s… he’s at the lake.”

_ WHY? _

Another look passed between Melanie and Georgie then, because it had suddenly become very very clear. Jon didn’t know that Martin was dead. Or if he did, then, in the way that spirits sometimes do, for his own stability, he had forgotten. Or, in a realization that made her heart ache, who had been there to tell him? Who would have ever cared enough, or knew enough to come and let him know that out there, in the woods, Martin still waited for him? 

“Jon,” Georgie said, despite the alarmed look that Melanie shot her way, “Jon, I’m so sorry, but he died. And we wanted to ask you if you knew how.”

The pen, a moment ago nestled carefully in both of their hands, was ripped from their grasp and flung against the wall. It shattered on impact and as they jumped back, the papers in front of them began to smoke and crackle. 

“Shit,” Melanie said, as the embers from the papers began to scorch new marks in the floor. The heat started to rise, and as they stumbled back, Georgie gripped Melanie’s hand tight enough to cut off circulation, and they watched as a word burned, red hot, into the blackened floorboards. 

**_M A G N U S_ **

Even though no flames were visible, it felt like the room was ablaze all over again. Ash and embers floated up from the pages, and they could only look on in horror as words, words and words, again and again, overlapping in ashen streaks. All the same, revealing one last, terrifying message. 

**_GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT_ **

“I think,” Georgie said, her back hitting the doorway, grabbing with her free hand for the recovered file, “I think we should run.”

Heat flared, and they ran. 

* * *

**_1949_ **

The house was ablaze. Flames billowed out of the attic roof, carving out bright bleeding gashes in the sky. Despite the best efforts of the firemen, it was spreading. The west wind urged it on, the fire beginning to lick and curl around the east side of the house. Dark smoke, shadows of memories and beloved things hung in the air. Martin couldn’t help but stare for a moment, panting for breath, as he took in the sight of the flames. They were violent, aggressive in their colours, more intense than he had ever seen fire be. 

That race through the forest had been the most draining of Martin’s life. He was not a particularly lean man, but he wasn’t unfit, having been well used to manual labour as well as his mother's demands. Months of desk work, despite the stairs in the house, had changed that. He had never run so far and so fast, and he had never been so afraid either. His heart tried to beat straight through his ribcage, and that was not only due to the run. 

He didn’t know how long it had been, or even exactly the way that he was running, but he knew he was going the right way. Green blurred into brown into the dark black of the earth, his panic flattening the path behind him, following a call that perhaps only his soul could hear. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was simply imagining the screams of the damned. So far, apart from the shouts of the firefighters or that of the people from the village who had run to see the commotion, he could not hear any trace of Jon’s voice.

Jon. He had to find Jon. He started forward, towards the house, only to be greeted by the sight of two firemen helping a soot-covered figure out of the front doors, smoke clinging to them, long fingers trying to hold them tight in its embrace. 

“Sasha!” He said, running again to her. She collapsed into him, coughing heavily. She clung onto his front, even as the fireman tried to lead her towards the waiting ambulance. “Sasha, are you alright? Where’s Jon?”

It took a few agonising moments for her to speak, coughs ripped out of her whenever she tried to take a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” She rasped, her eyes were filled with tears, though from shock or smoke he had no idea, “I tried to get up the stairs, Martin, I tried-”

She broke off to retch, leaning on him heavily for support, even as Martin gripped her arms tighter, knuckles white, the beating of his heart pounding out a word.

_ no no no no no no no no no no  _

“Sasha,” He said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “Sasha,  _ where is Jon?” _

Her face crumpled entirely, and tears flowed freely down her ashen face, “I’m so sorry…”

Martin’s hands went slack, and the fireman were finally able to tear Sasha away from him. 

“No,” He said, the vowels soft, heartbroken in his mouth, before rising, “ _ No _ !”

He began to run again, not caring about how the heat rose, how running a quarter of a mile and then further into smoke made his chest feel like it was shrinking. He had to get to Jon. He  _ had to.  _

Strong arms wrapped around his torso and held him tight. He wasn’t exactly the lightest guy, but he was already exhausted, and he was pulled to a stubborn stop. 

“Let me go!” He cried, “Jon’s still in there, I have to find him!”

Tim’s voice came from behind him and yes, those were Tim’s arms around him, Tim shouting, and when had he arrived? 

“I’m not about to let you run into a burning building!” Tim shouted. 

The firemen began to back away from the building, souting orders that were incoherent to Martin in his struggle. 

“Let me go, Tim!” Martin yelled, pushing forward once more, and this time they collided with a fireman, who pushed the pair of them back aggressively. 

“Get back! The roof might collapse, it’s not safe for anyone to go in there right now.”

“Please!” Martin said, “Please listen to me, there’s still someone in there, you have to help him!”

The man shook his head, “It’s too dangerous for my men, the best chance is to put it out first-”

“You aren’t listening!” Martin strained, pulling on Tim’s grip, “He’s  _ still in there!  _ Jon! _ ” _

“Get them out of here,” The fireman said, before his expression softened somewhat, “I’m sorry for your loss, but we have a job to do.”

“Martin,  _ Martin _ , please,” Tim was saying, but Martin barely heard him. He still strained to get out of Tim’s grip, and he could feel it getting weaker and weaker the more he struggled. 

“Tim, let me go, please, I have to find him, I have to save him, let me  _ go _ !”

“I can’t,” Tim said, and his voice was thick; with smoke, with tears, it didn’t really matter, “You’re my friend, Martin and I can’t let you kill yourself. Not even for this.”

“Tim-” Martin started, not even really knowing how that sentence was going to end beyond more pleading, more desperate struggle, but a voice behind them stopped him. 

“Oh dear god,” Jonah said, and to anyone who didn’t know him, it might have sounded sincere, “Is everyone alright? I had only just arrived at the church when we saw the smoke, we came as quick as we could. My dear Jonathan,”

Martin was aware then, that Jonah had most likely reached for him, because Tim pulled them both out of the way, and, all at once, Martin was facing Jonah. 

The look of polite anguish vanished in an instant, twisting into an impotent snarl as he wrenched his hand back.

“ _ You _ ,” He hissed, with such hatred and malice, that Martin flinched away, his fight to the house momentarily forgotten as Jonah’s rage towered over him, “You pathetic  _ whore _ , you couldn’t just stay in your place, could you? You couldn’t even do  _ that _ !"

It took a moment, but realisation sparked in the same horrifying way as the fire. It roared in his throat, a rage, a grief that he had never felt, “You did this,  _ you - _ !”

He lunged forward, and it was only Tim’s arms around him that stopped him from getting close to both the house and Jonah. 

Jonah scowled, rage etched onto his face, and turned away from Martin, striding towards the firemen, speaking with barely restrained fury. 

“Get in there, and get my fiance out!”

“Martin, Martin, please, stop struggling-” Tim said, but it was useless. 

Martin fought for every inch of ground he gained towards the house. Dimly, he was aware of the firemen telling Magnus that it was too fierce, that they couldn’t get up to the attic, but he only shouted over it. 

“JON!  _ JON _ !”

Tim shook with the effort of holding him back, or perhaps even from his own distress. Martin ignored him. All that mattered was Jon, getting to him, finding him,  _ saving  _ him. His eyes caught the light of the window, framed in crimson. 

It was barely visible, but there was something, pressed to the glass. A hand, familiar in it’s curves and edges and scars, a hand he held gently in the dead of night, a hand that cupped his and counted every line, every scar, and loved them all. 

There was a ghost of a man behind him, and Martin even thought, that for one single moment, he saw him smile. 

Then the window shattered, flames roaring their glee and pushing, rushing forward to engulf the air outside, and the figure in the window. Martin threw his arms above his head as alarmed cries echoed around him, and he felt sharp scratches appear on his arms as the glass rained down upon him. For a moment, as the shattered glass came to rest on the drive, there was only the sound of crackling wood. All were silent, and Martin, with them, turned their gaze to the attic window. 

Until, that is, the screaming started.

The strength of it, the all-consuming anguish, Martin felt as if he had been impaled on it. It tore straight through his heart, burrowing to the depths of his darkest thoughts, and settling there, a memory that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He retched and gagged in Tim’s arms as the smell of burning flesh reached him. 

“JON!” He screamed, as if his own cries could drown out the agony above them, “JON!”

Slowly, his mouth still shaped the name, but no longer were there any coherent words, only his own heartbroken sobs. 

Like the fire, the screams slowly began to falter. They rasped and choked and yet did not stop fully until it seemed certain that there was no longer a throat to scream from. 

Martin’s throat was raw, and he still mouthed Jon’s name noiselessly, until his whole body slumped from exhaustion. 

There was damp on the back of his neck, and faintly, he could hear Tim whispering empty reassurances as his tears leaked down Martin’s back. When he felt Martin sag in his arms, his grip loosened, though still in some kind of half hug. 

Matin couldn’t stop shaking. Why couldn’t he stop? He needed to stop, he needed to get up, he needed Jon - 

A hand cracked him across the face and he fell back, blinking back tears he hadn’t even realised he had shed.

“Filthy little slut,” Magnus said, towering over them, his face the picture of righteous wrath, “You had to get involved didn’t you, you couldn’t just  _ learn your place,  _ you rat, you  _ thief _ . You planned to steal him from me, and look at what you’ve done.”

He grabbed Martin’s chin in his hand, and forced his head upwards, to look at the now smoldering wreck that had been the attic. There were still some flames, but they were petering out now. Too little, too late. 

“You did this,” Magnus said, leaning in close, “You did this, and your precious Jonathan paid the price. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“Get away from him!” Tim said, from somewhere in his periphery. Magnus dropped Martin’s chin like it had disgusted him personally, and stood to the crowd. 

“You killed my fiance,” Magnus said, and though directed at Martin, it was clear the words were not only for him, “Through your jealousy and greed, you killed an innocent man. I hope you  _ rot _ .”

“No!” Tim shouted, but it was already too late. There were people moving towards him; police, foremen, maybe just a couple of onlookers, it didn’t matter. 

Martin took one last look at the house, at the broken mess of what had once been the home of all his happiness. He couldn’t stand it, he could not bear this pain in this moment any longer. He could not stay here when  _ Jon…  _

He scrambled to his feet, and began to run. Vaguely, he was aware of shouting, a commotion behind him; maybe Tim, maybe Magnus, but he had only one thought. 

_ Get out _ . 

* * *

**_2019_ **

Luckily, or perhaps maybe not, the way down to the front door was clear of the mirage of heat and flames. It was only as they went down the last flight of stairs, Georgie gasped, and pulled back.

“The Admiral!” She said, and Melanie turned to see the kitchen door; which, to her horror, was now open swinging wildly. 

“He’s smart, he can get out on his own,” Melanie said, hating the words coming out of her mouth.

“We can’t just leave him!”

“Georgie, Jon is upset with  _ us _ , not the Admiral, if we get out then the danger is gone!” Melanie pulled on Georgie’s arm, even though she wanted to run right back upstairs and search for that damn cat. 

Looking utterly torn, Georgie allowed herself to be dragged out the door, and they both collapsed on the stoney drive, exhausted from their rapid escape. Georgie dropped the file from the safe, letting the papers fall to the ground with no care at all as she struggled to catch her breath. 

“We can try around the back?” Melanie suggested, even as she panted hard. 

Georgie nodded, “We have to find him.”

“We will, just… just give it a moment for Jon to… to calm down.” Even aloud, the words didn’t sound entirely convincing. But even with everything that had happened, Melanie didn’t think that even a grief stricken ghost would harm a cat.

There was a crunch of gravel behind them, and they both turned. Coming up the drive was a car, almost entirely obscured by its headlights. When they blinked against the light, they saw that it was an older model of some kind of sports car; flashy in it’s day, but several generations out of date. 

Melanie couldn’t think of who would be here at this time of night, until the door opened, and an elegant cane pressed into the ground. 

Blinking back at them, and smiling genially, Elias Bouchard leaned on his cane and inspected the sight in front of him. 

“Good evening,” he said, “Do you need any assistance?”


	10. in which there is the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we put the pieces together, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last pieces are falling into place. Take care, dear readers.

_**2019** _

“We completely forgot you were coming, really, we couldn’t impose,” Georgie tried once more, as Melanie sent her looks of muted alarm. 

“I insist,” Elias said, smoothly, “Please. It is clear that the two of you have been through a lot this evening, and the least I can do is help you. I know this house better than anyone in the village, I’d wager; I know all the hiding places a cat might hide. We will have found him and be out by the time that Miss King returns with lodgings for the both of you. I would put you up myself, but I fear my home doesn’t have the space for guests.”

Georgie couldn’t deny it was the smarter idea, but still; no matter this man’s connection to the house, she didn’t really want to enter it with only him for company. 

“I’m afraid neither of us have a car,” She started, trying to reach an agreement that would allow Melanie to stay, but Elias waved her concern away. 

“Miss King can take mine; it’s no trouble. The Cribben’s Lash, in the high street, should have a room for the two of you available. I’d imagine you’d want at least one night away from this place. If it’s funds you’re worried for, I will be able to cover the room and board for you for a night or two.”

Georgie opened her mouth to argue, but propriety and politeness stalled her. This man was offering his help, his car, even his money, and even before that he had offered them local knowledge that they otherwise wouldn’t have been able to get. 

“Do you mind giving us a moment?” Melanie asked, breaking the silence, and to Georgie’s relief, Elias nodded, smiled, and stood to the side. 

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Melanie said, immediately, and Georgie hummed in agreement.

“Me neither, but seeing as the majority of the events in the house so far have been directed at you, and you carried out the actual seance…” Georgie trailed off, and implored Melanie with her gaze alone to realise why exactly these circumstances set her on edge, “It might not be safe for  _ you  _ in there. And, I’m sorry, but, the Admiral is more likely to come to me rather than you.”

“It’s… it’s not you I’m worried about. I trust you, Georgie, I just,” Melanie said, “I don’t trust  _ him _ .”

“I know, Mel,” Georgie said, and rested her hand on Melanie’s arm, “But right now, it’s the only option we’ve got. I can’t leave the Admiral in there any longer.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Melanie nodded, “I understand. I’ll be as quick as I can be, alright? Fuck, it’s at times like this I wish I hadn’t leapt into a lake with my phone in my pocket.”

“It’ll be alright,” Georgie went for a smile, feeling the warmth of Melanie’s arm under her hand, the pulsing beat of her heart, and felt herself reassured, and could only hope she did the same for Melanie, “I’m tougher than I look.”

“I think you look pretty tough,” Melanie said, and if it hadn’t been for the softness of her voice Georgie would have mistaken it for another friendly jibe. Before she had time to think about it, Melanie pulled her into a tight hug. “Be careful,” She said, her breath warm next to Georgie’s ear. 

“Always am,” Georgie replied, and hugged Melanie back with a strength that she had previously only reserved for Alex. 

They turned back to Elias, though he seemed now completely oblivious to them. He was staring at the house, caught up in observing it, and his eyes were fixed on the attic window. 

“We just wanted to thank you,” Georgie said, breaking him out of his reverie, “for your help. We left the Admiral in the kitchen, perhaps he’s still there?”

“Very likely,” Elias said, tilting his head, “There’s a lot of hiding places in there, to say nothing of the other rooms. Will you be going to the Lash?” He directed his question to Melanie, who nodded. 

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll go and get that sorted for us. Then I’ll come back and pick you up, and return your car.” Even though it wasn’t a question, Melanie’s voice still turned up as if it was.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Georgie said, “with the Admiral.”

She tried to sound as reassuring as Melanie needed her to be. Melanie didn’t trust him, but Georgie got the feeling that Melanie didn’t trust a lot of people, with Georgie being a rare exception. She wasn’t even sure she trusted him, but at this point, what alternative did she have? To go into the house alone? Risk Melanie’s life by asking her to accompany her? 

No, this was the best option. She would not allow Melanie to fall victim to her past mistakes. 

“Shall we?” Elias asked, and together, they entered the house.

* * *

_**1949** _

The woods bled green and brown and black under his feet. He was no longer aware of where exactly he was going, and neither did he care. He only cared that it was  _ away _ . Away from pain, away from grief, perhaps even away from reality entirely. It did not matter; all those were faster than he could outrun, and they were waiting for him to realise it. 

His foot caught on a tree and Martin fell, his body slamming to the ground as the forest opened wide to swallow him. For a moment all he saw was dirt, mixed in with the green of the spring leaves, before the panic gripped him once more. 

He could not stop. He could not stop, because then it would catch up with him; if he stopped running, he would have time to think, if he started to think, then it would be undeniable. As long as the woods around him were blurred and indistinct, so was the truth. He was no longer running with the purpose that had possessed him before, no longer following the call of his heart, his soul. 

It would not be the first time that he had faced pain beyond the physical. It would, however, be the first time he ran from it. He could no longer remember a time before his mother's sharp words and later, cruel dismissals, caused his chest to ache, dull and constant. In time, the numbing coldness of Moorland House had turned from a relief to its own agony. Icy and Isolating, it had frozen his heart, kept him inaction, enduring the hurt because it cushioned the pain he already bore. It hurt, and it had hurt more to leave, but it had been right, and he could bear that pain because it had led to this, it had led to  _ Jon- _

_ No don’t think about him don’t think about it, not him -  _

He had been balanced on a knife edge all his life, or so he thought. Always ready to tip one way or another, to fall into poverty or agony or oblivion. Perhaps all three. Until Jon, he was always expecting it to strike, or to finally fall on his own sword. He expected it, right up until Jon, and it was like he was walking on solid ground for the first time. 

Now he realised. The knife of terrible truth, he hadn’t been balancing on it at all. It had simply moved to where he could not see it, to where it would strike, unnoticed, unannounced. The truth waited, suspended in the air. Martin ran, but he could not outrun the cutting of the thread, the sword of damocles that now, unwaveringly, began to fall. It carved the truth into his flesh, the muscle of his heart. His very bones. 

Jon was dead. Jon was dead and he died knowing Martin had left him to his fate. 

It was more than an ache. This was beyond all others; a brand against his heart, the white-hot agony of this simple truth. It was wrong, this was all wrong. Jon was dead and Martin still lived. Despite the breaking of his heart, the crumbling foundation of his very being, the blood still flowed through his veins. His breath still dragged its way, unwillingly, unwanted, through his lungs. 

How could anyone feel this agony? How could anyone bear it? Those widows and widowers, all who had loved and lost and still lived, how did they stand this pain lacing through every part of him?

They were supposed to have  _ years _ . 

This thought brought him crashing to the ground, scattering open his palms on sharp rocks just beneath the shallow water. He had reached the lake at last. Dimly, Martin was aware of his knees being similarly soaked, and, oh god, Sasha had spent so much time on this outfit, she was going to kill him. Somehow, it was this, as well as the childhood sting of his hands that made it all too much. He choked on his grief, felt the ugly sob claw its way up his throat and force itself into the harsh, unrelenting light of day. 

Perhaps, once, Martin would have thought of grief as something beautiful. Inevitable, and terribly sad but the pure raw emotion of it made the most beautiful poems. There was very little like it, or so the poets said. 

Here, Martin learned another truth, another arrow through his heart, perhaps even more great and terrible than the last. Grief was not beautiful. It was an ugly breast, so full of that raw emotion that it tore apart all others. It hunted beauty mercilessly, because to be grief stricken, is to hate all that might bring relief. For it knows that the only relief to this unrelenting, unending pain is the return of something that cannot be returned. 

Here is a third truth, though Martin as he was now, would not,  _ could not _ hear it. Grief is grotesque and visceral and it hurts to the brink of breaking, but it is also human. If Martin had been allowed the years that he had so dearly wished for, his grief would not be the same, but it would be no less painful. Even that lifetime, in one universe out of a billion, he would have shared with his beloved, the pain of separation would have still shaken him with agony to his very core. But here is the thing: it would have been bearable. 

Right now, Martin was cracking under the premature weight he was forced to bear. 

“Oh Martin,” A voice soaked in sea-salt and fog came from his periphery, “What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Peter stepped out of the backdrop of the forest, and of course he was here, this was all of Martin’s nightmares coming true at once. 

Martin didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, and Peter took this as permission to continue. 

“Didn’t I say? Did I not tell you when you left that it would be a mistake, that all the horrors of this world would fall onto you and they would break you?”

Peter’s hand rested on Martin’s shoulder, but he did not see it, refusing to feel it. 

“My dear boy, I  _ understand _ . It hurts so much you wish it would simply rend you in two rather than to feel this pain. Grief only destroys, and it would be such a shame to watch it destroy you.”

Fingers on his face, pulling up his chin, taking hold of his hands and pulling them away from his face. Peter blinked down at him, beatifical in his expression. 

“I daresay this wasn’t Jonah’s intention, but I am so pleased with how it turned out. You can come home, Martin, and we can put all this nonsense behind us. You are alone, now, alone and even if it hurts, I made it all go away once, I can do so again.”

“Jonah… Jonah’s intention?” The words felt wooden in his mouth, the syllables heavy on his tongue.

“Yes, I imagine that he was attempting to kill you. I had advised him against it; after all, you would have been more use in controlling his Jonathan alive rather than dead, but I think you had insulted him for the last time. He has been so patient, but you infuriated him; and well, Jonah should have learnt his lesson from jealous impulsiveness. Still I am glad you, at least, were spared from the flames.”

He forced Martin’s head up, and in this moment, Martin let him, as the truth settled into his bones, a truth he already suspected, no, already  _ knew _ . He had known it when he saw Jonah’s face, but to know it and to hear it confirmed were two separate things. 

He knew, too, in that moment, that Jon’s death was all his fault. Tears leaked down his cheeks, and, in a mockery of care, Peter wiped them away. 

“You care, Martin, and that has always been your flaw. You care so much you feel as if you would bleed to death with the pain of it. Let it all flow away, Martin. There is no need to cry. Loving is a burden, and you have been released from it. You are alone, you have nothing left here to hold you down. Come with me, come back to where you belong.”

There was a long, empty pause. Waves lapped at their feet, trying to hold him in its embrace as the grief coursed through him. In and out, went the tide, like a breath; in for seven, out for eleven. And Martin knew, whatever he felt, however the fire of pain and loss and anger burnt through him, he would rather face the flames than Peter’s empty numbness. 

“No.”

“What did you say to me?”

Martin wrenched his face free of Peter’s grasp, and though he did not rise, he was at least free of Peter’s touch. 

“I said  _ no _ , Peter,” Martin said, and even though his voice was raspy from crying, it stood firm against the other man, “Because you’re wrong. I am  _ not  _ alone. I want friends; I  _ have  _ friends. I don’t want a life without love and yes, god yes, it hurts, it hurts  _ so much _ but I would rather have this than have never met Jon at all. I would rather live with this hurt forever than come back to  _ you _ .”

There was a moment of silence, and Martin didn’t think it was going to be alright, exactly, but maybe, finally, Peter would leave, and he would never, ever see him again. 

Peter’s face twisted, rage and fury and other expressions that Martin had never before seen on his face. He was not an angry man, and to see him now sent a rush of fear down Martin’s spine. 

“So be it,” He said, in a deceptively calm voice that was almost totally at odds with the expression on his face.

Martin went to move back, to get away, but between one blink and the next, his vision went white. There was a jolt of pain at the back of his head, and then numbness, as his face was suddenly hit with ice cold water. It took a moment for him to realise what had happened. By the time he understood that Peter had struck him, sent him slamming backwards into the lake’s stone bed, Peter’s hands were wrapped around his throat. 

With the throbbing pain from his head, he struggled to push himself up, against the force of a man who had been denied one too many times. 

“Peter-” He gasped, before the man tightened his grip and forced him down, back down, and though it was less than a few inches deep, the lake water swallowed him eagerly. He didn’t have time to take a breath; though his mouth broke the surface several times. He scrabbled at Peter’s hands but they were like iron, and the run through the woods had already drained the energy from his limbs, and more and more trickled out with every missed breath. It hurt. Every part of him hurt now; his legs, which kicked fruitlessly against the current. His arms, slowing now that they more and more weighed like lead. His lungs, oh, his heart had hurt before, but his lungs were  _ burning _ . It was like a fire, and for a moment, he knew intimately how his beloved had perished. 

If he could speak, maybe he would have begged. Maybe he would have called out for Jon, for Tim, for Sasha. Maybe, if he had screamed, someone would have come. 

But his head was forced beneath the water, the lake filled his lungs and Peter’s hands choked the breath from him. He might as well have had no mouth at all; and yet, he must scream. 

Bubbles escaped, precious air rising to the surface. Was he sinking deeper or was his vision getting darker? Was it the lack of air or the blood he could feel, could taste in the water from his head?

He was vaguely aware that his legs had stopped kicking, and that his arms had fallen limp to his sides. Peter still pressed down on him, but it didn’t hurt anymore. The light of day had become a deep, dark blue, darker and darker. 

He opened his mouth, and the last of his air went with it. In a slow second, his soundless lips formed the name of the man he had loved and lost and outlived by less than an hour. 

_ Jon,  _ he thought, before all other thoughts slipped away, and he sank, gentle, into the deep. 

* * *

_**2019** _

“It hasn’t changed at all,” Elias said, quietly, as they moved through the unusually still house. 

“How long has it been since you were here?” Georgie asked, glad for the conversation and break from the now oppressive silence of the house. 

“Far too many decades to count,” He replied, “I said before that I saw the fire myself as a young man. After I got married, my husband and I moved into a cottage nearby, with the intention of renovating Magnus Hall and moving in. We lasted two months.”

“I’m sorry,” Georgie said carefully, “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

Elias waved away her concerns as they ascended the staircase, the ground floor being completely devoid of the Admiral. Considering how they had run from the house, it was eerie how it was now completely silent, save from their footsteps. Every sound echoed, like it had when she had first entered alone. It felt more and more like trespassing. Breaking the seal on a tomb long since left to rot. The candles that she and Melanie had set up less than a few hours ago only added to that effect. A few hours… yet these last few days with Melanie had felt like weeks. 

“Not at all, my dear,” Elias said, and as his walking stick passed by the lines of candles, it created a flickering effect, casting his aged face into even greater shadow, “It has been many years, and for as much as he was my husband, we had a… stormy relationship. I was very focused on the renovation, you see, but was deep in the legal nonsense that comes with this kind of place. Peter began spending more and more time here, until he refused to leave at all.”

The name rang a bell in Georgie’s head, dim and distant, but she was too caught up in the tale and in the search for the Admiral that it did not entirely register. 

“He finally confided in me that he had felt something in the woods, and that he felt that it was following him, so much so that the only place he felt safe was the house. It was the height of summer, and yet, he refused to have a single window open, so great was his fear. He said that was how he would enter, and he reported such ferocious banging, as if the devil himself demanded entry. There was a point where he became aquaphobic, and the doctor even hypothesised that he had been infected with rabies, of all things, but it couldn’t ever be as simple or as ordinary as that.”

Elias sighed, tapping his cane against the floorboards, “I was away for a few days, on business. Apparently one of the builders had left the ground floor bathroom window open, as a way to ventilate it. Peter was found later that day. He had drowned in the bath, and the water was overflowing by the time anyone thought to look.”

“The spirit in the forest… we think it’s the spirit of Martin Blackwood,” Georgie said. 

“Ah,” Elias’ face darkened at the mention of the name, “As happy to murder in death as in life, it seems.”

“Melanie had a similar experience in that room,” Georgie said, her memory pushing out any objection she might have had to Elias’ assumption, “The window was open there too. But once it was closed, and we had closed the doors, we heard the same banging. As if he could barely manifest a presence inside the house, and he had to have an entrance into the house the entire time.”

Elias led them to the open door of the library, and Georgie was struck with a cold realisation that this was where Melanie had first encountered anything supernatural. They hadn’t expected to come in here, and so the room was devoid of light, only the gentle flickering from the candles in the hallway outside to illuminate their path. Surely the Admiral wasn’t in here, considering his behaviour towards the living room door the other night. Still, there were plenty of places for a cat to hide in here, and Elis spoke again before she could suggest another room. 

“Does it matter whether these so-called spirits can enter the home or not? If it were as simple at keeping a window closed, well, no one would ever report seeing a ghost.”

“Ghosts are… Well, they’re tied to places of significance. In a lot of cases, it’s where they died, especially if that death was traumatic. Sometimes it’s an object, but whatever it is, they are limited by it. People are scared of ghosts, but in truth, there is not much they can actually do to us. It takes a lot of energy for them to even manifest, much less manifest enough to kill someone. And if they do, then there is a reason for it, an emotion behind it that’s almost always related to the reason that they remain here.”

She realised just how insensitive that was too late, but glancing at the old man, it did not seem to have bothered him as much as she feared. 

“Did your husband have much of a connection to this place before you moved here?” She asked, moving over to the desk that sat at the window and peering underneath it. 

“Not as much as I, but a certain amount, yes. Peter came here once, for a social occasion, that’s all.”

Again,  _ Peter _ . She could not visualise where she had seen the name before, but she knew for certain she had; maybe at the hospital?

“And he heard the same banging we did...” Georgie said, and when she stood, her gaze was drawn to the view of the woods out the window. The lake was a dark hollow gash in the landscape, and she shivered, remembering the cold of the water all too well.  _ As if the devil himself demanded entry _ , Elias had said, and if this had been the night before, Georgie would have agreed. The banging had been terrible, terrifying, but Martin wasn’t a devil. It had been terrifying, but that hadn’t been the intention; it was desperate. Martin was desperate, and lonely, filled with nearly a century of torment. 

There, staring out at the night sky, Georgie was stuck with a realisation, “He wants to get into the house,” Georgie said, whirling around to face Elias, “I mean, that’s obvious, but it’s not just about the house. It’s about Jon; he wants to get to Jon. That’s the banging, that’s why Melanie felt connected to Jon while she watched me leave. Jon is stuck inside the house, and Martin is stuck in the woods. Even if their influence can cross over, like the bathroom, it’s not enough. They want to be together, they  _ need  _ to be together. It’s the only way they can be free.” All at once, the pieces slid together into her mind. “If his spirit is tied to this place then… maybe destroying this place, the house itself would allow them to be released? Ghosts follow the boundaries that were placed on them when they died, that’s why people see ghosts going through walls; they’re following paths that have been blocked off after they died. But what if we could get rid of the boundary entirely?”

“An interesting theory,” Elias said, “But tell me, Miss Barker, before you go about destroying such a historic house, what is to be gained by reuniting the soul of the murderer and the murdered?”

“We, uh,” Georgie started, and despite the look that passed over Elias’ face involuntarily, continued, “We don’t think he’s the murderer. We’ve had limited communication with him, in any way that one can communicate with ghosts. I know it’s difficult to believe but I spoke to him. I felt him, out there in the woods, and he didn’t kill Jon. He loved him. They loved each other, Mr Bouchard, and that’s what kept them here all this time. They loved each other enough that…” Her heart sank as she took in exactly what she was saying, “Loved each other enough to stay here, to anchor themselves to earth until they were reunited. God, and all this time we thought it was just the case of… solving the mystery, finding the truth, finding those files and exposing it to the world, but it wasn’t. They just want to be together. That’s all. That’s far more important than an old house.” 

“And what truth would that be?” Elias asked, prompting and Georgie turned back to the window, frowned as she recalled the last few days, and tried to judge exactly how much to tell Elias. 

“Someone,” She said, then stopped, “No,  _ Jonah Magnus  _ killed Jon. By accident or by design, but he did. Sasha theorised that it might have been to stop them exposing him, Jon had some incriminating evidence hidden away, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Then Martin was blamed for it and someone, and I don’t know if it was Magnus or not, someone killed him, drowned him in the lake.”

“Incriminating evidence for a 70 year old crime? Why, Miss Barker, you really have gotten yourself entangled in the web of this house,” Elias said, his voice slick with oil, but something in his sentence had sparked something; a memory, or a memory of a memory. 

Paper under her hands. Names on a list. The attic, the seance, the files and…

“Mr Bouchard…” Georgie said, slow and careful, “Was your husband’s name… Was it Peter Lukas?”

There was silence, and in that moment, Georgie went to turn around, to face the man who she had so foolishly entered the house with, to try and catch the whatever lie he would try to use. 

There was the sound of movement, and before Georgie had even managed to face him, there was an explosion of pain at her right temple. She fell backward, hitting the desk and chair on the way down as she scrabbled for purchase. Her vision swam, and went dark, though as she blinked, she realised it was the flow of blood trickling from the pain on her head. She tried to see through it, through the blood and pain. 

Above her, Elias stood, his walking stick coming to rest on the floor, the end of it now damp and rust-coloured. No, not Elias. She could have kicked herself, if she could find in her strength to move. Now, she could only hope that Melanie didn’t pay the price for her mistake. 

_ Get away. Drive as fast as you can away from here, Mel, and don’t come looking for me in this terrible place. _

Jonah Magnus, alive and aged, but beetle black eyes no less alight with possessive hatred, raised his walking stick once more, and smiled a terrible smile. 

“Miss Barker,” He said, losing none of that genality, only this time it was so clearly an effect, a mask only, “You are far too much like my dear Jonathan for your own good.”


	11. in which there is a long awaited reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein it all comes down to this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say before this, is that when I asked my girlfriend to beta-read this, it made her cry. Hold on to your hats, my lovelies.

_**2019** _

Something was wrong. She didn’t know why, she didn’t know how she knew, but as the car sped along the dark and lonely road, Melanie couldn’t shake that feeling. This was only a few minutes away from the house, and it was getting worse. Moment by moment, the feeling of dread in her stomach roiled and stormed and refused to settle. 

Something was wrong. It wasn’t the forest, dark and cold in the witching hour of the night. It wasn’t the black of the road ahead, dark like a blanket that she could only cut through with the headlights. It was behind her, back at the house, back with Georgie. 

She couldn’t help herself; she glanced backwards at the way she had come. Immediately, she felt foolish. She wasn’t far, but the house was already lost to the cover of night. All that was behind her was darkness. 

Melanie turned back to the front, and screamed. Her foot slammed on the brake by sheer instinct, and she was jolted forward harshly. The force of it made her neck ache, and she barely managed to stop her head slamming into the steering wheel. As it was, it hit her arm instead, and even that was enough to disorent her. 

By the time she was able to look up, she really wished she hadn’t. Yet, despite her throbbing temple, and the increasing ache in the back of her head, she couldn’t write off what she saw in front of her as a product of the sudden stop. 

There, illuminated in the glow of her headlights, stood a shadow. It flickered, like the flame of a nearly-burnt out candle, and Melanie knew instantly it wasn’t either of the spirits they had encountered previously. It was a person, or maybe what had once been one. Apart from it’s slight translucinity, its body might have been solid. The edges frayed, like the rough end of fabric, but the centre mass was clear enough. 

It was its face that had made her scream, and she could feel another rising in her throat, clawing, desperate to release the horror she felt at seeing what had once been a face.

Maybe it had been male; the frame was certainly stocky enough, but Melanie knew that wasn’t exactly an indicator of gender. The hair was dark, but she couldn’t tell if that was its natural colour or if it had just been stained by the blood pouring from the gaping holes in the skull. The skull itself had caved in, like a rotten fruit, and grey matter clung to what intact skin remained. There was only one eye left, and it fixed Melanie with an expression that made her entire body grow cold. 

Something, someone, had taken the idea of blunt force trauma way, way too far. Clinically, Melanie supposed it must have been something rather thin, but solid; a metal pipe, a steel bottle of some kind. Something that could survive multiple hits right into the centre of the face. 

It pointed, and its mouth opened; well, dropped open, because its jaw was long since broken beyond clear movement. At first, she thought it was pointed at her, and she braced herself for the cliche; if this was a horror movie, something would be in the back, and she would turn to check and then suddenly this horror would be in her face and she would never be seen again. 

She didn’t turn, and it glared at her. It jabbed a figure towards her once again, this time in what might have been irritation. It was then she realised that, no, it wasn’t pointing at her; it was pointing behind her. To the house. 

“You want me to go back?” She asked, though she did not expect a reply. The figure gave her a look that was definite irritation, and it was such a strange look on something so terrifying that the horror of the figure beld out of her all at once. 

Of course, that meant that the horror of exactly why this thing might be pointing her back to Magnus Hall came rushing back in. It hadn’t come for her. It had come to warn her. 

_ Georgie _ , she thought,  _ I have to get to Georgie _ .

She paid no more attention to either the figure or traffic laws. She turned around the car at record speed, and put her foot down. 

For a moment longer, the car lights continued to illuminate the figure. He watched her go. He had become so very good at watching; he had kept watch over Sasha for nearly 70 years now. Still, tonight had necessitated the first time he had left her side. It was the end now. For all of them. 

Melanie sped off into the distance, and all that remained of Timothy Stoker watched her go, before entirely fading into shadow. 

* * *

“Wait!” Georgie cried. It was the only thing she could think of to say, as her brain scrambled for everything, anything that might hold off this mandman for just a moment longer, “ _ Why _ ? If you’re going to kill me, I want to know  _ why _ . You killed Jon, faked your death,  _ why _ ?”

Elias, no _ , Jonah _ lowered his cane slightly, but did not move away from her, “My dear, only two of those are entirely correct. I did leave the Magnus name behind, for various petty, small reasons that are of no consequence now. And I am going to kill you. But I did not kill Jonathan Sims. If it hadn’t been for that pathetic wretch of a servant, none of what happened would have come to pass.  _ He  _ should have been in the house, not Jonathan.”

Georgie wanted to flinch back at the pure malice that made up Jonah’s words, but her determination wanted to allow him no quarter. So she stood firm, and tried to figure out how to make him monologue more. He was one of those men who liked the sound of his voice far too much, and she could exploit that. If only the room would stop spinning. She had to blink fast to keep the blood from running into her eyes. 

“Is that… is that why you killed him? Martin?”

Jonah’s face darkened, “If only I had the chance. I would have made it far more painful than the death Peter gave to him. Leaving him to rot at the bottom of the lake was the only decent thing that was done that day.”

“I still,” Georgie said, trying to move herself into a position that was easier for her to run from without Jonah noticing, “I still don’t understand why, though. Why do all this? Why try to kill Martin, why kill Tim Stoker?”

“Just like Jonathan,” Jonah said, indulgent, like talking to a child, “All this knowledge, but never quite grasping understanding. All of you, back then and all the way to now, no one understands that  _ this  _ is the way the world works.”

The tip of his cane flick down, and Georgie could not help her jolt backwards, but he merely chuckled and raised it so that it rested under her chin, tilting her chin up. She seethed, but made sure to meet his eyes. If she wasn’t going to be able to run, she sure as well wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction. 

“Power,” He said, with the kind of confidence and self-possessed arrogance that only a man like him could conjure, “Pride. The Greeks used to call it hubris, defiance of the gods, but there can be no defiance when you yourself are the god of your subjects.”

“And that was Jon?” Georgie asked, feeling sick to her stomach, “A subject?”

“No, Miss Barker,” Jonah smiled, “He was a  _ prize _ .”

He lifted his arm, perhaps to strike, perhaps simply to lean again upon his walking stick, but Georgie didn’t wait to find out. She took her chance. Pushing with both of her hands against the dizziness, she ran headfirst into Jonah; not enough to knock him over, but definitely enough to knock him off balance. Despite his age, he was a large man, a strong man, and certainly didn’t have any head injury. 

The fast motion was already making her dizzy, and the floor swayed underneath her. In this state, she wouldn’t make it down the stairs without falling and breaking her neck. No, Georgie couldn’t outrun Jonah. But she could hide from him. 

She heard a roar of rage from behind her. She didn’t have much time, but she couldn’t just take the first place she saw. It would be the first place he would check. 

Instead of darting out of the room like she wanted to do, she ran to the other end of the library and pressed her back flat against the end of the bookcase. It was narrow, and she couldn’t be sure whether her entire body was hidden behind it. She had the dark and shadows on her side, and she could only hope that Jonah would think that she had made a break for the door. 

Sure enough, she heard him recover, a few steps where she held her breath and kept as still as she was able, until she heard the door slam and footsteps fade from hearing. With the door shut it was almost completely pitch black in the library. 

She couldn’t stay here, not forever, but she could already feel her knees beginning to weaken. Her head hurt, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the room straight. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to focus on keeping her breathing quiet and regular. 

There was the sound of a door opening, and her eyes flew open. But it wasn’t the library door, and what she heard next sent more dread flowing through her than if Jonah had appeared next to her. 

“Georgie? Are you there?”

* * *

“Georgie?” Melanie called, stepping into the entrance hall of the house. Stepping in here again felt wrong, but the absence of any sign of Georgie felt worse. The candles still flickered in their bracers, up the staircase, many of them burnt too low to produce much light. In the darkness of the hour, the darkest time of night, the yellow and orange flame of the candles cast a false sunrise over the empty spaces of the house. 

No ghosts, no ghouls, but most importantly, no Georgie.

“Are you there?”

She stepped forward, “Mr Bouchard? Georgie?”

Melanie began to climb the stairs, and tried not to let the silence of the house get to her. Her footsteps echoed, and she almost wished that something would happen, if only to break the quiet. 

She reached the balcony of the first floor, and nothing happened at all. 

“Georgie?” She ventured again, quieter this time. The candles puttered in time to her footsteps, as she continued around the hall. She cast a thousand shadows, every time she took a step; on the walls of the corridor, down the staircase, over the open front door, even over to what had once been a music room. All, except for the dark part of the balcony that led to the library. 

Melanie frowned. She was certain that they had lit up candles down that end, and more importantly, she was sure that the door had been left deliberately open. She remembered Georgie doing it, joking that it would let them know if any ghosts had entered. 

The door was shut now. It was clear now, as she approached; as it had been shut, the gust must have blown out the candles near to it. But who had shut it in the first place? Maybe the others had simply been marking which rooms they had checked for the Admiral?

Still, it was her first, and frankly, only clue. 

Steeling herself, she took a hold of the handle and slowly opened the door. 

“Georgie?” She asked, stepping inside, “Georgie, are you in here?”

There was a shuffle in the dark, and Melanie nearly jumped out of her skin as a shadow at the end of a bookcase moved and started stumbling towards her. 

“Jesus, Georgie, you scared the hell out of me!” She said, and stepped forward to greet the familiar figure. As she did, though, the light fell on Georgie’s face, and Melanie felt her stomach drop, “Fuck, Georgie, sweetheart, what  _ happened?” _

She caught the staggering Georgie, and held her upright; she had a nasty head wound, and though she was almost certain it wasn’t as bad as it looked, the sight of it still filled her with fear. Georgie’s expression though, that filled her with complete and utter dread. 

“Melanie,” She said, her voice a harsh whisper, “Melanie, you have to be quiet. He’s still here, we have to hide, Mel, come  _ on _ ,”

Melanie let Georgie pull her slightly, “Him? Jon?”

Georgie vehemently shook her head, and the action made her wince, “No, it’s, Elias, he’s not, Melanie,  _ he’s Jonah Magnus _ !”

Georgie’s eyes widened then, looking up and over Melanie’s shoulder, and Melanie realised what that meant just in time. There was a whistling noise as something solid and heavy sailed through the air right where her head had been as she ducked, pulling Georgie down with her. 

Behind her,  _ Jonah fucking Magnus _ pulled back his walking stick for another hit. If it had hit her with the amount of force intended, Melanie imagined she would look very similar to the spirit she had seen on the road. 

She tried to push Georgie back, stand up, but it was clear that she wasn’t going to be so lucky as to get out of his range a second time. 

With a noise somewhere between a yowl and a screech, the Admiral flung himself from the ether, right at Jonah’s head, biting and scratching in defense of his human. 

“Come on!” Melanie said, pulling on Georgie’s hand, and the pair of them sprinted out of the library. 

There was a howl behind them, and while neither of them saw exactly what happened, they heard the crash. Heat flared at their backs, and turning, Melanie saw that in flailing to try and remove the Admiral from his attack position, Jonah had stubled back and into several of the still-lit candles. They had ripped their way up the dry wallpaper with almost supernatural speed, and now there were two problems to contend with. 

One was the fact that the fire was rapidly spreading across the entire first floor, reaching out with greedy arms. The second was that the Admiral was now nowhere to be seen, and even more worryingly, neither was Jonah. 

Even as they half-ran, half stumbled to the staircase, the flames leapt up and around them. It overtook them, and Melanie couldn’t believe how fast it spread. Years of dust, dead skin and splinters and lack of upkeep, as well as the many candles that they had themselves put there, meant that this fire was already an inferno. It was eager, almost gleeful in the way that it curled over the wallpaper and began to eat away at the very foundations of the home. There was a loud  _ CRACK  _ and the ceiling above them shuddered, embers falling like rain. 

If they didn’t get out here right now, then they were going to be swallowed too. The Admiral was small and smart, and was most likely already out of the house after his attack on Jonah. They were not small, and Georgie still wavered on her feet, and somewhere in this house, Jonah was coming for them. Of that, Melanie had no doubt. 

Helping Georgie as quickly as she could, they started down the main staircase. It was getting increasingly harder to see, with the smoke and the flames and the threatening noises that came from the upper floors. Melanie could start to feel her chest constrict, the familiar feeling of smoke filling her lungs shortening her breath. 

There was another alarming crash from behind them, and, startled, Melanie turned. Her grip on Georgie tightened to the point where the other woman cried out in pain, until she turned to look as well. 

The fire was alive. Twisting, flickering, the very flames pulled themselves into the shape of a man. There was no definition to his features, only the heat and the pain and the complete and utter agony. That was all that remained. Once caged, now free and in the presence of his tormentor, the last ashes of Jon Sims burnt and and scorched and blackened the house that had been both his prison and his tomb for so long. 

Melanie stumbled back, the spirit of this torment forcing her away. Her foot missed a step. There was one breathless moment, hung in midair. Smoke and ash settled, but she was up, away. Then, falling. 

She was lucky that she did not land headfirst on the solid oak steps, but there was a horrible  _ crunch  _ as her ankle hit at exactly the wrong angle on the step, and pain exploded. Dizzy from the fall and from pain, she vaguely registered Georgie trying to get down the stairs to her as fast as possible.

A noise from behind her made her turn, and unbidden, she let out a small moan of despair. 

Magnus, dusty and covered in soot, stood behind her. Barely out of breath, his eyes were alight in the fire of the home. In them, she didn’t see the facade he had spent decades building, or even simply a manipulative asshole. There, she only saw the conflagration of madness. 

“I told you,” Jonah said, his face twisted in triumph, “I know this house better than anyone left living!”

“The house is burning!” Georgie shouted from behind Melanie, and suddenly her hands were there, hot and sweaty, grabbing tight to Melanie’s hand and not letting go, “It’s all gone! What’s the point of killing us?”

Jonah’s eye’s bulged. Tears, whether from the exertion or from the fire, streaked down his face and trickled past his wide, wide grin. 

“This house and everyone in it is mine! Mine alone!”

The fire behind them  _ roared _ . The heat was increasing, and the fire had reached the ground floor, flames engulfing the doors to the kitchen, dining hall and to the living room, where they had stayed the night before. The paint on the walls dripped, the same consistency as candle wax. There was still a path to the door, and even though Jonah stood between them and it, she could still see that taunting presence. It was still open, and outside, the faintest light was visible. Melanie almost sobbed. Dawn was coming, and they would most likely never live to see it. Well. She certainly wouldn’t. Not with her ankle throbbing and with Georgie’s likely concussion. But Georgie…

“Go,” Melanie moaned, holding her ankle tight, and making the only decision she had left.

“No,” Georgie replied, steadfast, still holding her hand and putting her body in front of Melanie’s as Jonah advanced upon then, “No, I won’t leave you.”

Melanie looked up to the wizened old man towering above her. This sight, the heat of the flames and Georgie’s tight grip on her hand would be the last things she felt. The fire raged behind her, hungry and gnawing, but for all its anger, it wouldn’t reach Jonah before he killed them. 

Then Georgie gasped, her eyes trained on the open front door behind Jonah. Melanie thought it was a last, desperate lamentation, that the exit was so close and yet so far. 

But when she followed Georgie’s gaze, she found something even worse. 

Silhouetted by the flames, a figure stood, barring the doorway and blocking out the cool night air. There was a faint  _ drip drip drip _ , as drops of water splashed and immediately boiled away into steam on the burning wood. Perhaps, once, the figure had been larger than average, a shape that perfectly suited them. Now, though, wrecked by time and the elements, the figure stood bloated, puffy arms and legs a mockery of what it once was, its distended belly sagging under the weight of decomposition. Because it  _ was  _ decomposing; its skin mottled and grey, dark blue and greens in places where the water had stained its skin. The parts of the body that were the thinnest were pulled back, sunken, almost skeletal in comparison to the rest, the edges where fish and other such creatures had feasted until there was nothing left but stretched skin and bone.

In front of it, a beam collapsed and fell, shooting sparks upwards, but carving a path in the front facade of the house. The sound was enough to make Jonah turn. They could not see his face, but they could not mistake the way his hands shook, clutched bone white around his walking stick, and he took the smallest step back. 

“No,” He said, disbelief clear in his voice, and his next words were almost a moan, “Not  _ you… _ ”

The creature took one, agonisingly slow waterlogged step, then another, dragging its feet into the home as if every step was painful, and slowly, the firelight revealed its face. To Georgie’s horror, she realised that, despite all that had been done over time, it was still recognisable from the photographs from the safe.

The face, oh god, the face was where bone shone through the most. It seemed as though the fire was illuminating the worst of it; the strips of skin hanging limply from where it had been pulled, the skull looking as if it had pushed itself through the skin, desperate to escape from it’s watery fate. There were only the faint remains of what had once been curly hair, lifeless and limp in it’s remains. Around its throat were black shadows of handprints, violent and stark against the grey skin. Through lidless and staring eyes, there was only a look of pure determination.

It took another step, then, with a tongue long since eaten away by the lake’s inhabitants, said one drawn out word. 

“ _ Jonah… _ ”

“No!” Jonah said, and he nearly tumbled over himself in his desperation to put the girls in front of him as the creature advanced, slow and inexorable, “No, I won’t let you ruin this!”

The creature smiled then, a motion that stretched the skin on it’s face to lengths that should not be possible on a human. Another lurching step, and Melanie realised with horror that it was within touching distance of them. 

Where it had been walking was a trail of curling smoke, as the water soaked into the burning wood and dampened the flame; clearing a path to the exit. If they ran, they might make it. Then again, it stood between them and the remains of the door. 

Melanie whimpered as, slowly, the figure lowered the remains of a hand towards them. It rested, finally, on Melanie’s shoulder, and she could not repress a shudder at the slimy, cold feeling of it, soaking into her shirt, and dripping down her back. 

It spoke again, still in the voice that pushed past the brine and algae that had collected in its throat. 

“Go. This inferno is not for you.”

She did not need telling twice. She stood, even as a wave of dizziness hit her, and helped Georgie to her feet, without putting too much weight on her bad ankle. 

She heard Jonah shout, an incoherent noise of rage at their escape, but she did not look back as the figure passed them, and continued its corpse walk towards the man who was responsible for his death. 

The flames still burned as they staggered along the damp trail, clutching onto each other for support as much as comfort. But it was an exit, and, finally, they stumbled into the cold air of the almost dawn, the faintest trace of the sun stealing away the night as the fire burned. 

It was then that they turned. It was difficult to see, through the flames and the rubble, but it appeared that the corpse had reached its goal. Jonah cowered, finally an old man in body and stature, as he lay prone on the steps of the grand staircase. He twisted his head in panic as the heat rose behind him, and above him, stood the familiar flaming figure. Jonah may have said something, a plea to the man he murdered, or perhaps he was merely gasping for air.

Whatever it was, it was drowned by the sound of another beam collapsing, this time from the second story. Both the girls watched as the roof crumbled inward, a tower of cards no longer supported. 

There was a suspended moment when all they saw was Jonah’s face, agape in terror. Then he was gone. Buried under the rubble, and they did not want to think about how they themselves had nearly suffered the same fate. 

The fresh twilight air was a relief compared to the inferno inside, and as the house crumbled and burned in front of them, they took just a moment to hold each other, just to breathe. 

“Are you okay?” Melanie asked, when she could talk again. She found that she had slowly sunk to her knees, and Georgie had helped her leg into a more comfortable position. Then, Georgie’s hands were on her cheeks, wiping away ash and tears, and she was making a noise halfway between laughing and crying. 

“Georgie-”

“I’m fine,” Georgie said, soot streaked face breaking out into a smile, “I’m okay,  _ we’re  _ okay. Mel, we’re okay.”

Melanie had no response to this other than to lean forward and press her forehead against Georgie’s. She smelled like ash, and burnt hair and copper; but Melanie could feel her hot breath against her skin, and the pulse under hers. 

They were alive. They were  _ alive _ . 

When they pulled apart, a dead man was walking out of the house. In the almost-dawn, he flickered; not like the fire he had once been, but a candle at the end of its wick. 

He wasn’t in the strange, rough clothing that Melanie had seen him in, nor was he in the formal clothing of the photograph. Instead, he looked rather like an amatur production designer's idea of a reclusive kooky professor. She didn't know why she expected him to be in black and white, but when he looked at her, his eyes were a brilliant, emerald green. 

In his arms, he held the Admiral. Georgie gave a noiseless cry of delight, and the Admiral sprang out of the arms that held him and ran to his human. Without the cat, his hands twisted, scarred fingers pulling at each other in a motion that might have been anxiousness. 

"There’s nothing left living in that house,” He said, quietly, in a voice that sounded simultaneously too close and too far. A shouted whisper. The quiet voice at the end of the tape, “Not anymore.”

Melanie didn’t know what to say to that. What do you even say to a ghost?  _ I’m sorry? We’re alive and I think you saved us but you’re still dead? _

“I wanted to thank you,” Jon said, because even as a shade, Melanie thought he should be allowed to have his name, “Both of you. The house is gone. Jonah is gone. We’re free.”

“We?” Georgie asked, still clutching the Admiral in her arms, “You mean, that -”

Jon’s face split into a smile like the dawn, his eyes fixed behind them, and they both turned. 

Out of the wood, through the wood, because she could still see the wood through the colours and cloth of his body, a man came, walking tall and proud. His face was unmarked, unblemished, his body restored to how it had once been. 

Martin Blackwood strode from the woods, as if he had been born there, saw Jon, and began to run. There was a blur of motion, something moving faster than anything living ever could, and the sound of laughter echoed through the trees. 

When she next blinked, the two shades in the dawning sun held each other tight; Jon safe against Martin’s chest, his arms wrapped around Martin’s back and rubbing soothing circles. She couldn’t help but feel like she was intruding on an intensely private moment. Then again, every skeptic alive would tear this to shreds. The ground under the ghosts feet did not move, the stone path was not disturbed as they stood on it; the wind whistled through them, and the very beginnings of sunlight only made them more translucent. 

But their smiles were so joyous, so radiant. Loneliness no longer clung to them, their pain and anger all burnt away. They had each other, and their joy was iridescent. 

Georgie squeezed Melanie’s hand, and Melanie realised that somewhere along the way, they both had started crying again. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Martin said, his voice somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Jon replied, “I didn’t mean too.”

“I know,” Martin said, “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“What,” Georgie swallowed, summoning her courage to speak, “What happens to you now?”

Both the ghosts turned, and regarded them. For a moment, it was that same feeling that the house had always given her; being watched, that cold feeling on the back of her neck. Then it passed, and Jon gave a fond smile to Martin. 

“You’ve always been more poetic than I,” He said, and Martin laughed quietly. 

“Alright then. It’s… difficult to explain, but,” He paused, “We’re like… dewdrops at dawn. The very last snowfall on the very first day of spring.They’re here for a moment, then they fade, or fall, or melt away in the bright light of day, but they were  _ here _ . That’s all. They were here, and for a moment, they mattered.  _ We  _ mattered,” 

He let his hand trail down, intertwine with Jon’s. “And as long as we’re together, what happens next really doesn’t matter at all.”

“Are you ready?” Jon asked, gentle. 

“Together?”

“Together.”

They each leaned forward, Jon’s hand coming to cup Martin’s face. Their kiss, when it happened, was soft, tender; bittersweet. The sun broke over the smoking ruins of Magnus Hall, and not for one second were they apart. Light danced, shimmering, and for a moment, it was opalescent in the vibrant dawn, colour melting into colour. 

Melanie blinked, and the ghosts were gone. 

“Is it over?” She asked softly, as the sounds of sirens could be heard on the horizon. The blaze must have been seen from the village, or at least the nearest home. 

“Yeah,” Georgie said, “Yeah, I think it’s over.”

Together, they sat and watched the sun rise over the destroyed home, a desolate castle, now turreted and fully open to the light of dawn.


	12. in which our story ends at last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the threads are cut, and a there is both an ending and a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKay so! I know i forgot to update yesterday but I have a reason! my new job is making me get up at 5:30am for work and yesterday was my first shift so i came home and just crashed, and well, I'm knackered! I'm a 'proper adult' now, so, it seems fitting to finally finish this. My first completed chaptered fic!
> 
> Before we jump into it all, I want to thank anyone who has helped me with this fic, first and formost being my beautiful wonderful girlfriend Dew, (and today is internation lesbian day, how perfect for this last chapter), who has supported me and helped me and been so so amazing, and I love you loads, sweetheart. 
> 
> Next, I have to thank the entirety of the Magnus Writers discord, for helping, for being there, for just being a source of fun and inspration and cheerleading, yall are awesome and this fic wouldn't be here without you. 
> 
> And finally but certainly not least, all of you. My wonderful, wonderful readers. I love you all so much and fuck, I never expected this fic to get the reception that it has, and I owe it to each and everyone of you. Thank you, from the bottem of my heart. I will (!!!) be adding a small Authors Note chapter to this at some point, detailing some of my inspirations, thoughts, feelings and behind the scenes tidbits, and if there is anything you guys wanna know, any questions or anything, please please comment and I will answer them!!!
> 
> (Jonny d'Ville voice) Alright then. One last time.

_**2019** _

In the end, they buried him next to his friends. It was a beautiful spot; right under a tall evergreen tree, shade at the height of the day and a lovely view of the sunset at the end of it. When dawn rose, the new stone glistened with the morning dew. In the winter, it would be protected from the snow, and in the spring, snowdrops would spring from the green earth. In autumn, it would be covered with red and brown leaves, like a warm blanket, and summer, meadow flowers would bloom. 

They were both in the only black they could find; Georgie, an oversized shirt and black jeans, and Melanie, a knee length dress that she clearly looked uncomfortable in. She leaned heavily on her crutches, watching as Georgie placed the bunch of flowers gently at the headstone. They were lilies; traditional and overdone, but Georgie liked to think that he would have liked them regardless. 

Melanie had barely been on her crutches for two weeks, but she was already used to maneuvering them easily, and the rough terrain of the cemetery was only a slight challenge. She did, though, loop her arm in Georgie’s as soon as Georgie stood up. 

“It was a pretty decent service,” She said, “All things considered.”

Georgie hummed quietly in agreement, staring down at the headstone in front of her. It was a lovely white marble, and the newness of it, as well as the one set on its left contrasted heavily with the older, much more weathered graves to their right.

“At least they’re all together,” She said, quietly, “It’s the least we can do for them.”

The morning of the fire, after the police and the firemen and the village doctor had looked them all over and then questioned them extensively, the two of them had collapsed into a bed at the Cribbins Lash. There was no question of separate rooms. After what had happened with Elias, or, well, Jonah, Melanie wasn’t letting Georgie out of her sight, and Georgie didn’t want to be anywhere else. It had been 6pm by the time they had woken again, and ordered a frankly ridiculous amount of room service. It had been with the room service that they had been told the news; Hilltop Hospital had been trying to get into contact with them. Having had no answer from Melanie’s mobile, they had tried to contact the house, only to find it had been burned to a crisp. The news that they were staying at the hotel had spread fast, and Melanie was called to reception to receive the call. 

Sasha James had died that night, and while gruesome morning discoveries were not uncommon at Hilltop, this was unusual in all the ways that it wasn’t. The footage of her room that night showed no pain, no anger, no suffering in any way. She had simply awoken in the early hours, and even in grainy footage, her smile of pure and utter joy was clear. She had stretched out a hand, and for a moment, Doctor Cane said, she looked 70 years younger in the early light of the morning. Then she was gone. Even as they buried her, with Melanie now technically listed as her next-of-kin, the relieved and unburdened smile remained on her still face.

The same, however, could not be said for Jonah Magnus. A couple of days later, when they had both gone out and brought second-hand phones, they were asked to come and formally identify the body of the man who had once been Elias Bouchard, who had once been Jonah Magnus before that. Once that was done, it was Georgie’s turn to receive a phone call with surprising news. Among a lot of the other things that Georgie hadn’t known about Magnus Hall, apparently her distant, distant relative had a hefty insurance policy on the place. An insurance policy that, unlike most, was more than willing to pay out in circumstances such as these. It was such an absurd amount of money, that Georgie had been able to keep rooms at Cribbin’s Lash for both her and Melanie for the entire time the investigation into the fire took place. She had even been able to put down a deposit for a small flat in London that allowed pets. 

It had taken about a week to decide, but in the end, they had gone to the cloud file where all of the footage from the last few days had been saved. The cameras themselves were unrecoverable, but by some miracle, supernatural or otherwise, the recordings of the séance, and some audio files from Georgie’s scuffle with Jonah, had been saved there as well. Even with the file they had recovered from the house, there was nothing that any legitimate authority could do, especially now that all concerned were dead and gone. But that didn’t mean that  _ they  _ couldn’t do anything. 

It was the insurance money that had paid for the dives, the teams of men and women who went into that deep, dark lake in the woods. It took most of it, but it was worth every penny, when, a couple of weeks after the fire, Georgie watched as a stoke basket, a type of body bag she was told was used for drowning victims, was pulled out of the lake. She was glad they had a bag. She wasn’t sure what to feel, as she told Melanie later. It was just a body. Martin was long gone, his soul released and at peace. Still, the rest of the insurance money had gone to paying for his gravestone. 

They had been the only ones at the funeral, if you didn’t count the funeral director and the gravediggers. And here they stood, under the beautiful sun, watching as the dirt settled, and re-reading the inscription Georgie had asked for. According to Jon, after all, Martin had been the poetic one. 

“Do you think he would have liked it?” Melanie had asked, and Georgie smiled as she read it once more.

“Yeah. I think he would have.”

In firm, solid letters the tombstone read:

_ For the repose of the soul of Martin K Blackwood, _

_ Devoted friend, cruelly stolen. _

_ 1920 - 1949 _

_ “Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain, _

_ He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue: _

_ Taken from life when life and love were new _

_ The youngest of the martyrs here is lain _

_ Thy name was writ in water—-it shall stand: _

_ And tears like mine will keep thy memory green” _

“I like the part about the world’s injustice,” Melanie said, “Seems fitting.”

“It’s all over for them,” Georgie agreed, “Now, it’s up to us.”

Georgie paused before ploughing ahead, without waiting to listen to Melanie’s objections, “I finished editing it all last night,”

“Georgie, we said we’d do it together -”

“And of course it’s still going to need a couple of passes before it’s internet-ready, but… we still don’t have to do this. Not if you don’t want to.”

Melanie sighed, “I never thought I’d actually be seriously considering this. Just weeks ago, I would have uploaded all of this in a heartbeat. Now I don’t even know what to do.”

“Some really, really horrible things happened to us there.  _ Particularly  _ to you. I don’t blame you if you never want to see that footage again.”

“Is that why you edited it without me?” Melanie asked. Georgie did not reply, “Georgie, nothing in that footage can harm me anymore. Can harm either of us. It’s just… it’s just Jon. If you don’t want to put it out there, then we don’t have to. You don’t have to pretend for me.”

Georgie stood for a moment, before she bent down, and pointed to the gravestone. 

“Do you know what this phrase means?”   


“ _ Thy name was writ in water?” _ Melanie said aloud, “No, I don’t think I do.”

“A common interpretation is that nothing came of you. Like ripples in water, they leave no lasting impact. There is nothing worth remembering.”

“Bit harsh.”

“But there, right after it;  _ It shall stand _ .”

“Meaning… It’ll be remembered after all?” Melanie asked. 

“Exactly,” Georgie said, “And look at rivers and cliffs, for gods sake. What is written in water, by water, carves the deepest groove of all.”

She stood again, and took Melanie’s hand, “Someone has to remember, Mel. We can just put the files on the internet, sure, upload them and forget about them, but who will go looking for those? Who will remember this long after we’ve gone?” She sighed, and looked at the row of graves. 

_ Sasha James.Tim Stoker. Jonathan Sims. Martin Blackwood.  _

“They’re gone, but someone should remember,” She finished. 

Slowly, Melanie nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. But we’re going over the episode together, alright?”

“Course,” Georgie said, “And I won’t do something like that again.”

“Appreciated,” Melanie replied. 

They stood in silence for a moment. Leaves slowly fell from the tree above, and in the distance, they heard the laughter of children, running out of their school at the end of the day. Somewhere here, Georgie knew, Peter Lukas was buried. As was all that remained of Jonah Magnus. She hoped it was far, far away from those in front of her, in some dark and lost corner, left to be forgotten by the ravages of time. Perhaps a little harsh, but at least one of them had tried to kill her, so she felt it was rather deserved, considering the circumstances. 

“So what happens now?” Melanie asked.

“Well,” Georgie said, “We edit and upload the video. We go back to London, and… move on with the rest of our lives.”

“We?” Melanie said, quiet and hopeful. 

Georgie hesitated. It wasn’t that she was uncertain; she was most definitely certain, but it wasn’t something that either of them had actually discussed, not in detail. She could almost joke about it, could feel the sentence forming;  _ I don’t see anyone else I could collab with in this graveyard. _

But Melanie wasn’t joking, and with every second she hesitated, Melanie’s nervousness grew. 

“Of course,” Georgie said, the words flowing easily, her sincerity clear, “If you’ll have me.”

Melanie relaxed imperceptibly, “If you’ll have me, I think you mean. You’re the one with a fancy London flat.”

“I don’t know, what can you offer me?” Georgie said.. 

“I make a mean tandoori chicken,” Melanie replied, and her voice was so serious that Georgie couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Do you like cats?” Georgie teased, “Because that’s kind of a dealbreaker for anyone I date.”

Melanie froze for just a second, then her grip on Georgie’s hand tightened, and when she smiled, she was as radiant as the sun.

“Love ‘em,” She said, and careful of her crutches, leaned into Georgie’s side. It was so natural for Georgie to put her arm around her shoulders, pull her close, never wanting to let her go. Even like this, their hands found each other, and Georgie gently stroked the back of Melanie’s hand with her thumb. 

“As great as that answer was,” Melanie said after a moment, “I meant, what do we do  _ right now _ ?”

“Oh,” Georgie said, and paused to think. She thought of the house, and of the night they spent in the living room, holding each other as the banging of separated souls continued endlessly. She thought of the lake, of a hand grasping her own and pulling her to the surface. Of a careful hand in hers as she let out a story she had never told another living soul. Of a tight desperate grip, that meant that, even in the face of death, she was unafraid. 

“Keep holding hands,” She said, finally, “And never, ever let go.”

A gentle squeeze, and Melanie’s forehead was then pressed to her own, her breath warm on Georgie’s lips. 

“As you wish,” Melanie said, and smiling, pressed her lips to Georgie’s. Warmth bloomed in her chest, and there, in front of the dead, all the living could do was live. 

“Oh my god,” Georgie said, rather breathlessly a moment later, before leaning in to kiss her again, properly this time,“You’re such a nerd.”

“You love it,” Melanie replied, and Georgie found herself far too busy to reply, even if she had any inclination to disagree.

Their shadows, in a mirror of themselves, embraced, became one. It fell across the oldest of the graves in front of them, newly adorned with the flowers that they had brought. Time had taken a toll, but the words written there were still clearly visible in the daylight. 

_ In gentle remembrance of Jonathan Sims _

_ Loyal and kind friend, taken too soon aged 33 _

_ “Death is nothing at all. _

_ It does not count. _

_ I have only slipped away into the next room. _

_ Nothing has happened. _

_ All is well. _

_ Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. _

_ One brief moment and all will be as it was before.” _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please comment/kudos! If you really enjoyed, come say hi on my twitter @MJDashwood or my tumblr - marianne-dash-wood.tumblr.com!! See you next week! :D


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